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f 

THIS NUMBER CONTAINS 


IN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


By MRS. HUNGERFORD (“The Duchess”), 

iUTHOR OF “ MOLLY BAWN .“ “PHYLLIS,’’ “LADY PATTY. ” ETC. 



COMPLETE. 


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AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 





BY 


MRS. JIUNGERFORD 

t^HE DUCHESS ”), 

AUTHOR OF u MOLLY BAWN,” “ PHYLLIS , ” 11 NOR WIFE NOR MAID , n ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 



Copyright, 1893, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 


LIPPINCOTT’S 


MONTHLY M AGAZINE - 

— 

NOVEMBER, 189 3 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


CHAPTER I. 

The rose is living on her cheeks, 

The lily in her rounded chin ; 

She speaks but when her whole soul speaks, 

And then the two flow out and in 
And mix their red and white to make 
The hue for which Td Paradise forsake. 

T HE old house, in spite of the decay that is fast compassing its ruin, 
is looking lovely in the rays of this hot noon sunshine. The 
windows are all blazing as though on fire, and seem to be seeking 
comfort from the cool green of the ivy that is hanging round them, 
— framing them, as it were, — hanging too closely, indeed, to some of 
them, as though suggesting the idea that a clipping would be good 
for it. 

Decidedly the ivy does want clipping; but, alas, the old house 
wants so many things ! “It is difficult to grow old gracefully,” says 
Madame de Stael in one of her charming letters. No one has ever 
contradicted her, and indeed this old house, so very much the worse 
for wear, is an argument on her side. Yet there are some beautiful 
features about its fading. 

The terraces, for one thing, — or rather for two things, — are looking 
delightful to-day. They too are bathed in the lovely light that shows 
up all the flaws and ruined places. It shines indiscriminately on the 
broken body of the Diana over there, on the headless Cupid in this 
corner, on the exquisite old cedar on the lawn below, and on the two 
bare spaces in the balustrade where the pillars have been broken away, 
and through which the boys now sometimes creep, to the terror of the 
old nurse (who is as old as everything else in this sweet forsaken spot), 
and clamber down by the ivy branches, coming, as a rule, to the end 
of their journey with a tumble to the turf beneath. 

In the garden beyond, the fountain is dead. Great Pan has ceased 

515 


516 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


liis playing. His pipe lies idle in his mouth ; one of his hands is 
gone; and the big banks where flowers used to lie in profusion, en- 
riching the air, — why, they are dead too, and dull, and forgotten. Yet 
there is about these banks a certain air as if some one had been de- 
sirous of restoring their fallen glories. A digging here, a prodding 
there. A boyish hand, perhaps ; an amateur’s hand, beyond question. 
It might be a girl’s. Whatever it is, it seems to have done little good. 
The violets alone have proved grateful for the slight if honest care be- 
stowed upon them : in the spring, year after year, they rush to deck 
this sad and lonely bank, making glad the world around them by their 
priceless presence. 

Just beyond this “ wilderness of sweets” a little garden lies, all 
wooded round by evergreens, bays, laurels, and the red-flowered escal- 
lonia. In here, flowers grow apace, as swift* as weeds, though weeds 
there are none, — only such dear flower-blossoms as are known to us 
from childhood, — things that cost us nothing, that would fetch but a 
poor price in any market, and that yet are so sweet to our souls, — so 
beyond all money ! — flowers that speak to us with a living breath, a 
living beauty, and a thousand fond memories, past griefs, past joys. 

This is Terry’s garden. 

Upon the green, sloping lawn before the house, three stately beech- 
trees, broad and strong and great, are spreading their branches ; beneath 
them shadows lie. Far, far beyond them is a glimpse of the ocean, 
silver and green, but no sound comes from it to-day. This day is so 
still that hardly even a twitter from the birds disturbs the air. 

Silence lies on everything. 

A silence broken now, however, and in a most tempestuous fashion. 
Out from one of the drawing-room windows, brushing aside the too 
obtrusive ivy that looks as if it would have liked to catch her and de- 
tain her, springs a slight, girlish figure ; after her rush two boys. For 
a moment, like a bird, she alights upon the terrace, poising herself as it 
were, then flies to the steps, and away. 

Away across the sunlit lawn ; away over the tiny, sparkling stream, 
her two hounds in full cry ; away into the scented wood beyond, and 
out again. Across the road now, and through an opening in the hedge 
into another wood, and so on, and on, and on. 

Swift as Atalanta she flies; no laugh upon her parted lips. This 
is business. But oh, here is an obstacle ! 

A high wall uprears itself before her : she has made a mistake, has 
come the wrong way. She glances back, her blue eyes full of the de- 
sire for victory, the excitement of the chase rendering every nerve 
tense. Yes, they are gaining on her. “ The foe, they come, they 
come !” 

This dreadful wall ! Her eager and (it must be confessed) experi- 
enced eyes search it from side to side. There is very little time for 
search ; the foes, and “ those of her own household” too, draw nearer 
every second. 

With a little wild brandishing of her arms she makes for a kindly 
projecting stone in the wall before her, that up to this had escaped her 
notice, and, catching by the mosses and grasses that decorate the wall’s 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


517 


old sides, she clambers to the top of it, and, standing there, looks down 
at the other side. 

It is steep, — horribly steep. Eagerly she looks to the right ; no 
hope. As eagerly she looks to the left, and here her eyes stand still. 

“ Do you want to come down, Miss O’More ?” asks a voice that has 
something of surprised condemnation in it. 

“ Oh, is that you ?” cries Terry, frantically. “ Hurry ! hurry ! 
Help me down !” She is too excited at the moment to notice the dis- 
agreeable tone in his voice, but afterwards it comes back to her and 
rankles in her heart. “ They’ll be here in a second ! Give me your 
hands !” She leans down towards him. “ Oh, hurry — do /” 

“ One moment,” says Mr. Trefusis, calmly, taking his gun from 
his shoulder. He has been sent out by his hostess to shoot a rabbit, as 
Miss Anson wants a rabbit-skin to make something for the coming 
bazaar that is to be held in the school-house. 

“ There isn’t a moment !” cries Terry, wildly. “ They” — looking 
back — “ they have turned the corner ! What !” stamping her foot 
impatiently on the top of the wall, “ what are you doing with that 
gun ?” 

“ Taking out the cartridge,” says the Englishman, immovably. u I 
think it unwise — actually reprehensible — ever to let a gun out of one’s 
possession loaded ; and you say your brothers are coming?” 

“ Oh, bother your gun !” cries Terry. “ Look here. If you won’t 
help me, I’ll jump.” 

“ I beg you won’t do that,” says Mr. Trefusis, coming quickly to 
her. He has flung both the gun and the cartridges upon the ground. 
He has unloaded it, however. Now, placing one foot against the wall, 
he reaches up his arms to her, and she, catching his hands, springs light 
as a feather to the ground. 

“ This is Den !’ she cries, triumphantly. She breaks into a burst 
of merry laughter as the boys’ heads now appear at the top of the wall. 
In a moment they have swung themselves over and are beside her. 
“ I’ve won !” she cries, gayly. “ That’s another penny. It was five- 
pence yesterday. It’s sixpence now.” She laughs again ; her laugh 
is like music, sweet, spontaneous, irresistible. 

“ Oh, it isn’t fair !” cries the eldest boy, Max, who has the face of 
an angel, but a nature that I’m afraid even the strongest-minded angel 
would disown. “Mr. Trefusis helped you; we saw him. Of course 
if we had people to help us, we’d have won.” 

“ He only gave me his hand. Wasn’t that all, Mr. Trefusis?” 

Trefusis regards her curiously. Does she know how anxious he is 
to give her his hand forever? But her question is still unanswered, 
and, being an Englishman, he answers it to the letter. 

“ Both hands, I think,” says he. Somehow the answer seems to 
militate against her in the eyes of the two pursuers. 

“ There ! you see !” says Geoffrey, the second boy, who is the very 
image of his sister. “ He thinks it unfair, too !” 

“Do you?” asks the girl, turning to Trefusis hotly. “Oh, yes,” 
— resenting his hesitation, which arises only from a desire to understand 
the situation, — \“ I can see you do. I,” indignantly, “ I’m very sorry 


518 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


I asked you to help me at all. I could have jumped it quite easily by 
myself.” 

“ I am glad, however, I was on the spot,” returns Trefusis, calmly, 
— with, indeed, most aggravating calmness. “ You might have seri- 
ously hurt yourself if you had jumped down here ; sprained your 
ankle, or ” 

“ Nonsense !” says Terry, shortly. 

“ There have been cases of the kind, however,” continues Trefusis, 
coloring slightly. “ And, besides, to run so much as you do, do you 
think it wise?” “ Ladylike” was on the tip of his tongue, but Provi- 
dence came to his aid and suppressed it. 

“ I don’t think about it at all,” says Miss O’More, with a little 
tilt of her chin : there is distinct resentment in her glance. “ If you 
object to running, then don’t run. As for me, I am now going to run 
again — home. Come, boys.” 

The boys are at her side in a moment. 

“ If you think I didn’t win that last penny fairly,” says she, “ I’ll 
race you all over again. But you must give me the same odds. To 
that tree over there,” pointing to a distant birch. 

“ All right,” cry the boys in a breath. They have thrown them- 
selves into running attitudes, and Terry is about to start, when Trefusis 
comes quickly forward : 

“ Miss O’More, a word. I have a letter from your cousin for 
you : I was going to your place with it. She hopes you will come up 
to dinner to-night.” 

Whatever Terry’s cousin may be feeling on the subject, there is un- 
mistakable hope in the face of Trefusis. 

“ You — I may tell her you are coming?” says he, seeing with a 
curious pang at his heart that she has not even cared to open the letter 
he has given her. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” returns she, carelessly. “ I’ll think about it. 
At all events, I’ll send her word.” 

“ But ” 

“There isn’t time for ‘ buts,”’ cries she, with a rather malicious 
little laugh at him. “Now — Geoff — Max — I’m off!” 

And, like a second Atalanta, away she flies again, like an arrow 
from its bow. 


CHAPTER II. 

O light of dead and of dying days ! 

O Love ! in thy glory go, 

In a rosy mist and a moony haze, 

O'er the pathless peaks of snow. 
****** 

But what is left for the cold gray soul 
That moans like a wounded dove ? 

Through the wood they have flown all three, and now into an 
open field beyond, that runs by the side of the high-road. Here a 
young man, riding leisurely along, stands up in the stirrups and calls 
aloud to Terry. Turning, she sees him. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


519 


“ A pax ! a pax !” cries she to her brothers, whereon they all troop 
down to the wall to talk to the man on horseback, a very tall and very 
well set-up young man, and that uncommon thing, a handsome Irish- 
man. 

“Are you going up to the Hall to-night?” he calls over the 
thickening hedge of furze and blackberry behind which Terry is stand- 
ing on tiptoe with a vain hope of seeing him face to face. Finding 
this impossible, she now smiles at him, though he does not know it, 
through an opening in the bushes. “ Fve had a line from Fanny. 
But I want to know if you are going.” 

“ Why ?” she asks. 

“ Only because, if you aren’t, I shan’t go either,” says her cousin, 
Laurence O’ More. 

“ Oh, well, set your mind at rest. I’m going,” says Terry. 

“Where on earth are you?” asks Laurence, peering right and 
left. “ I wish I could see you : I’d know what you really meant 
then.” 

“ Do you mean to insinuate that my word is not as good as my 
bond?” asks Terry. She clambers up a break in the bank and shows 
him a lovely face, just between two branches of furze that are heavily 
and most sweetly in bloom. 

“Well?” she says, saucily, “am I going to Fanny’s to-night, or 
am I not?” 

“Oh, it wasn’t about that I wanted to question you,” says the 

young giant on horseback. “ It was ” he hesitates. “ Was that 

Trefusis I saw you speaking to just now in the lower field?” 

“Yes.” 

“ He seems to haunt you.” 

“ Don’t be stupid,” says Miss O’More, turning a little red, how- 
ever. 

“ Oh, stupid ! Mark my words,” says her cousin, leaning over 
his saddle towards her, as if to emphasize his words, — perhaps to 
watch her face more closely : “ he wants to marry you.” 

“Pouf! Go home!” says Miss O’More. She scrambles down 
from the bank again and goes on her homeward way. But she resigns 
that penny to the boys. She will run no more. She is tired. 

“ Terry,” says Geoffrey, twisting his arm into hers, “ why did you 
tell Larry you were going to Fanny’s to-night, and Mr. Trefusis that 
you didn’t know whether you would go or not ?” 

“ Because Mr. Trefusis asks too many questions,” returns his sister, 
with a disdainful little shake of her charming head. 

If she had known that he was going to ask her yet one more ques- 
tion to-night, perhaps she would not have gone to dine with Fanny, 
after all. 

Terry O’More, the eldest of the O’Mores now living, had been 
christened Terentia by her mother. The late Mrs. O’More had so 
adored her husband that when her first baby came she had feared to 
let this opportunity pass of complimenting him and perpetuating his 
beloved name, lest a second opportunity for doing so should never 


520 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


arise. As a fact, two other opportunities did arise, and the latter put 
an end to her pretty, graceful, tender life. Her husband followed her 
to the land of shadows ten years later, killed by a fall from his horse 
while hunting, and from that time Terry had lived practically alone. 
Terry she was, for Terentia had been felt to be too impossible a name 
in a household where the rents had been lowered to such an extent 
that carriages were put down, and the box stalls where the horses used 
to stand were rotting. 

On her father’s death, her cousin, Mrs. Adare, had offered her and 
the two boys a home at the Hall, but Terry would not leave the old 
house, though, indeed, the four walls were all that was left to her, and 
about a hundred a year. Even old Miss Bridget O’More, her aunt, 
who lived at Derrymain, about two miles from More House, Terry’s 
home, and who, though u wallowing in money,” as the peasants said, 
was proverbially close-fisted, had declared herself willing to saddle 
herself for the rest of her days with her brother’s children, but Terry, 
though much pressed to it by Fanny Adare, would not consent to go 
beneath another roof as long as her own old roof would stand. 

Then efforts had been made to provide the desolate child, who was 
only sixteen, with a companion, but against this she set her face reso- 
lutely, and, with a certain force that startled her listeners and made 
Miss Bridget shake her head over her future, declined to live with 
any stranger. She had the boys, she said, Max, who was fourteen, 
and Geoffrey, who was twelve, as promising a pair of pickles as one 
could meet with in a day’s march. Besides which, there was Nurse. 
She would stay with her. 

Mrs. By an, on being questioned, gave it to be understood that 
wild horses wouldn’t draw her out of More House. 

And Mrs. Ryan, it was felt, was a force in herself. When “ the 
masther lay stretched,” as she graphically and with heart-rending sobs 
described it, it had been intimated to her by one of the maids that 
there would be little hope of wages in the future, the “ masther” 
having died most hopelessly in debt, and that she had better join the 
others and make a clean exit. Whereupon bad times arose for that 
maid. Mrs. Ryan, full of grief, had fallen upon her tooth and nail, 
and boxed her ears soundly. 

After that she had settled down, seen all the other servants out of 
the house, and accepted a quarter of the old wages she was supposed 
to receive (there had been great difficulty about the paying of any- 
thing during the last few years), accepting that only because her darling, 
her foster-child, would not be content unless she shared something 
with her besides her troubles. Terry was the light of her eyes, as 
unfortunately, in some cases, she was the light of other eyes too. 

Thus Terry carried the day, and lived alone in the old tumble- 
down beautiful house, with only the boys and the nurse to keep her 
company, and without actual chaperonage of any kind ; yet such was 
the girl that no one ever said there was anything wrong in the doing 
of this thing. Terry was Terry ; no breath of scandal could come 
near her. Even the rector’s sister, who made all the parish “ sit up” 
occasionally, had never a word to say against Terry ; at least, a word 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


521 


that signified. It was not in Miss Gabbett’s nature to let any one go 
quite scot-free. Even her brother, the rector, she condemned at times, 
and the rector was a saint. Perhaps that was why she was his sister ; 
saints have always burdens to bear. 

However, Terry escaped very well at her hands ; though her 
brothers certainly did not. Everything she spared Terry in the way 
of objurgation she added to the vials of wrath that she daily poured 
upon the boys. More House was always under her supervision. 

Poor old More House, once so beautiful, now in the last stages of 
decay. The boys have turned its name into a joke. “ We don’t want 
More House,” they say ; “ what we do want is more furniture.” And 
indeed furniture is at a low ebb in the large rooms that look now like 
barracks vacated. As time went on, the tables and chairs and knick- 
knacks had fallen asunder, and been consigned, not to the attics, as 
with most people, but to the kitchen fire, fire-wood being an article 
unknown of late years. And these articles, thus brought to the hammer 
of life, had never afterwards been renewed. There are a few things 
still in the drawing-room and dining-room and bedrooms, but Want 
stalks through the house, rampant at waking hours, mercifully forgotten 
in the dark moments of the silent night. 

Poor Terry ! She makes that very uncertain hundred a year go 
a long way, the longer because of the rector, who would not take a 
penny from her for the education of the boys, and who yet drills them, 
and scolds them, and grinds them, as though he were getting a thou- 
sand a year for them. Good rector! Your reward is in the courts 
above ; a great, a high reward ! 


CHAPTER III. 

Oh, her cheek, her cheek was pale, 

Her voice was hardly musical ; 

But your proud gray eyes grew tender, 

Child, when mine they met, 

With a piteous self-surrender, 

Margaret. 

“ Just in time,” whispers Mrs. Adare, giving Terry’s hand a warm 
pressure as the girl enters the drawing-room at the Hall, a few hours 
later. Mrs. Adare (Fanny, as her intimates call her) is a young and 
pretty woman, a cousin of Terry’s, who had married Tom Adare, the 
owner of the Hall and Master of the Hounds in this county, almost 
five years ago. An excellent match as far as money goes, and a still 
better one in that love alone made it. 

“ I was so afraid I was late,” whispers Terry back. She is look- 
ing charming, — a little flushed from excitement attendant on the fear 
that she was keeping them all waiting. Her lovely brown hair, with 
its threads of gold running through it, is lying loosely on her forehead, 
half concealing, half betraying the whiteness of it, and her dark-blue 
eyes are brilliant. She is dressed in black, a grenadine skirt on a black 
silk one (the latter had been her mother’s), and, though undoubtedly 
it has seen service, still somehow it looks lovely on her — or she looks 


522 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


lovely in it. It certainly throws out the exquisite fairness of her soft 
childish neck and arras. She has no gloves, — gloves are so expensive, 
— and no rings on her slender fingers, and nothing round her throat, 
and, indeed, not a jewel anywhere. Yet to Trefusis, standing by the 
window at the far end of the room, talking to Miss Anson, she seems 
the most delicately beautiful thing he has ever seen in all his life. 

He is too much a society man to show his thoughts, yet all the 
time he is talking of the last new novel to Miss Anson he is thinking 
of Terry. How fair she is, how self-possessed ! With what a perfect 
air she greets her friends ! Is this the same girl who was running 
wild as a roe through the fields this morning? What “infinite va- 
riety” ! And that little trick of half closing her eyes ! 

“ Gerrard, you will take Miss O’More in to dinner,” says his host- 
ess, softly. He smiles gratefully at her. He had, indeed, asked her 
earlier in the day to let him have Terry as his companion at dinner. 
He now moves towards her, not seeing the frown on the face of the 
girl he has just left, who would very willingly have accompanied him 
anywhere. Fanny does, and smiles a little. Trefusis’s secret, if it is 
one, is no longer unknown to her. She is an old friend of his, and 
meeting him in England last winter had asked him to come and stay 
with her. He had come, a month ago, had seen Terry, and had been 
conquered. He has hardly cared to disguise his admiration for her ; 
certainly not from Fanny, who is delighted at this chance of a good 
marriage for her cousin, — a penniless cousin, and a cousin extremely 
dear to her. But how will Terry act? Will she refuse him, or ac- 
cept? Fanny’s kindly heart sinks within her, as she thinks of the 
girl’s impetuous, honest nature. If she does not love him, how will 
it be then ? All through dinner she trembles for the result of the 
interview that she is almost certain Trefusis is bent on arranging 
between Terry and himself to-night. 

Indeed, when she finds, after dinner, that Terry and Trefusis have 
disappeared, into the conservatory presumably, her nervousness grows 
on her. That foolish girl — if she, Fanny, could only have said a 
word to her, about the boys for instance, and their good 

“This is your doing, I suppose,” says her brother, in an infuriated 
tone. She looks up. Laurence O’More, his handsome face alive with 
wrath, is looking down at her where she sits near one of the curtains. 

“What is my doing?” she asks, with the access of indignation 
that guilty people usually acquire. 

“ I tell you what,” says Laurence, hotly, “ Trefusis won’t thank 
you for this, when it is all over.” 

“The original riddler was nothing to you,” says his sister, meanly 
hiding herself from his wrath beneath a pretence of ignorance. “What 
have I done, Larry ?” 

“ You’ve let that fellow propose to Terry. Pshaw ! as if I didn’t 
know what he’s taken her into the conservatory for ! As if you didn’t 
know too ! And a very sisterly act on your part, I must call it ! — 
knowing, as you do, how — I — regard Terry ! But there is one satis- 
faction,” maliciously ; “ she won’t have him. She’ll refuse him ; and 
then how will you explain yourself to him?” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


523 


“She will have him; she must,” says Mrs. Adare, solemnly. 
“ Larry,” catching one of the tails of his coat as he angrily leaves her, 
“ come back. Listen to me. Of course I know you have a sort of 
fancy for her ” 

“ Fancy for her !” 

“Well,” with the irritating air of one who is willing to go all 
lengths to gain a purpose, “a sort of love for her.” 

“ A sort of love !” 

“Well, isn’t it a sort of love?” cries Mrs. Adare. “It can come 
to nothing. She hasn’t a penny ; and you have about two hundred a 
year. Do you propose to marry on that ? Don’t be a fool, Larry ; 
and don’t be selfish, either. Give Terry her chance.” 

“ Oh, as for her chance,” says he, “ I’ve nothing to do with that. 
She cares nothing for me. What I object to is your driving her into 
a marriage with a man for whom she cares nothing either.” He pauses, 
and then, “ After all, it doesn’t matter,” says he : “ she will refuse 
him.” 

Has she refused him? As Terry comes into the hall half an hour 
later, cloaked and hooded for her journey home, Mrs. Adare comes up 
to her over the marble pavement of the hall. She has been dying to 
see her before, but it is so hard to get away from one’s older guests. 

“ Terry ! Something has happened ? He has asked you to marry 
him ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And you ?” breathlessly. 

“ I said I didn’t know.” 

“ Oh, Terry !” 

“ Well,” with a sad if defiant glance, “ I dov!t know.” 

“ You don’t !” Mrs. Adare looks at her. In her tone there is 
reproach, vehement but repressed. “There,” hurriedly, “go home. 
I’ll come over in the morning. But,” holding her, as the girl with a 
rather glad activity goes by her, “you will say ‘Yes,’ dearest? Think 
of the boys !” 

“ I have,” slowly. “ I thought of them. That was why I didn’t 
say ‘No.’” 

“Oh, Terry!” 

******** 

Mrs. Adare knows little sleep to-night. Honestly concerned for 
her cousin’s welfare, she lies awake, thinking of her future. This 
thought keeps her wakeful, and in the morning at breakfast it is still 
with her. She cannot refrain from casting curious glances at Trefusis 
during the meal, and is discomfited by finding him quite as calm as 
usual. 

Is he so sure, then ? Even if he is, he should not show it. “ I 
hope he will change his manner before he goes to see her this morn- 
ing,” says she to herself. Oh, if only she could give him a hint ! but 
that is, of course, impossible. 

Breakfast over, she makes a slight apology to her guests, — the Hall, 
as a rule, is always full, — and hurries away to Terry. First, however, 


524 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


she sends off a note to her aunt, — hers and Terry’s, — giving her a 
hint as to the situation. Old Miss Bridget might be useful on such 
an occasion as this, and no chance should be neglected to induce Terry 
to accept an alliance that will raise her from absolute poverty to the 
light of day. 

Not finding Terry down-stairs, Mrs. Adare runs up to the girl’s 
bedroom. 

“ What are you doing here?” she cries, gayly. “ Making yourself 
lovely for him ?” 

“ No. Hiding, I think,” says Terry, with a rather nervous laugh. 
“ Fanny,” — her eyes fill with frightened tears, — “ do you think I 
must see him to-day ?” 

“ Not only that,” says Fanny, with decision, and refusing to see 
the tears, though her heart is aching, “ but you must say ‘ Yes’ to him.” 

“ Must I say that ?” 

“ My dear girl,” says Fanny, “ you will be mad if you say any- 
thing else. What do you expect, Terry? Gerrard is a gentleman. 
He is very well off; he is next heir to a title, and he is extremely 
good-looking.” 

“Is he?” 

“ In love with you ? I never saw any one so head-over-ears in 
love with any one in my life,” says Mrs. Adare. “ If that is what 
troubles you, I ” 

“ Oh, no, it isn’t that,” says Terry, carelessly, indifferently, — with 
indeed such an assured air about his being in love with her, that Fanny 
laughs outright. 

“ That goes without telling, I suppose,” says she. “ What a con- 
ceited little cat ! Well, what is your question, then ? His money ?” 

“ No; his looks. You said he was extremely good-looking.” 

“ So does everybody, unless you are the solitary exception. Some 
people call him downright handsome !” 

“You mean Miss Anson,” says Terry, lifting her shoulders. She 
hesitates, and then, “ His face is very long,” says she. 

“ So is his purse,” returns Fanny, sententiously. 

“ Still, I ” 

“ Nonsense, Terry ! His face is not long.” She is looking at the 
girl searchingly. “ It is not as short as Larry’s, certainly, but ” 

“ What has Larry got to do with it ?” asks Terry, with a quick 
frown. 

“ Nothing, I hope. Yet sometimes I cannot help thinking, Terry, 
that you give a good many of your thoughts to him.” 

“You are wrong, then, — in a sense. I know what you mean; 
but Larry is only like a brother to me.” 

“ I am afraid he does not feel like a brother towards you.” 

“Oh, as for that, it is all nonsense,” says Terry, blushing hotly. 
“ He only fancies he is in love with me. He won’t break his heart 
over me, anyway.” 

“ No, he will never break his heart over anything,” says his sister, 
thoughtfully. “ Larry is a typical Irishman, all storm and energy to- 
day, all sunshine and indifference to-morrow ; raging at his fate in the 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


525 


morning, and telling you a good story in the afternoon. Larry is 
delightful ; he’s a darling ! If any one knows Larry, I do. He 
wouldn’t suit you, Terry.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t take such a wrong view of it all,” says 
Terry, angrily. “ I am as little in love with Larry as I am with ” 

“No, don’t say it,” says Fanny, interrupting her quickly. “Try 
to be in love with Gerrard, Terry. Think what a help he would be to 
you and the boys. You know you won’t let me help you ; but a hus- 
band — you could not refuse help from him. And Max ought soon to 

go to college, and ” she grows silent for a moment; then, “You 

will accept him, Terry ?” 

“ I don’t know. I ” 

“ What did you say to him last night?” 

“Just that. That I didn’t know.” 

“ But you must know now ! All last night ! You must have 
thought last night. If you don’t care for any one else, I implore you 
not to throw away this chance. You — you don’t care for any one 
else?” 

“ No, not in that way.” 

“ Then you ?” 

“I’ll say ‘Yes,’” says the girl, abruptly. “It will be for the 
boys.” 

“ For yourself too, darling ! He is one of the best fellows in the 

world ; he ” She breaks off : a loud familiar voice can be heard 

outside. It is the voice of Miss Bridget O’More. 

“ Here is Aunt Bridget,” says Fanny, nervously. 

“ You have told her !” says Terry, rising and gazing at her cousin 
with keen reproach. 

“ Well, it had to be told sooner or later,” says Fanny, airily. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Whether we die or we live, 

Matters it now no more : 

Life has naught further to give. 

Miss Bridget O’More stalks into the room, her face one great 
aggressive smile. As her face is about the broadest thing on record, as 
far as faces go, the smile passes all bounds. The smile of the famous 
Cheshire cat isn’t in it, by comparison. Miss Bridget is tall, stout, 
and vigorous. When she speaks she shouts. This latter delightful 
trait (that, as a rule, reduces the nervous stranger to the verge of 
lunacy) arises probably from the fact that she has insisted on getting 
her false teeth from the cheapest man in Dublin, and therefore unless 
she yells no one can understand her : there are times when she does 
not understand herself. 

It has been suggested to her by long-suffering relatives that she 
would gain in the saving to her lungs if she would only go to a good 
dentist; but to save in purse is the joy of Miss Bridget O’More. 


526 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


Having considerably more money than she knows what to do with, 
it is Miss Bridget’s chief delight to pile up sum after sum and invest 
them carefully. She might have been of immense good to Terry and 
the boys since (and long before) their father’s death, but, beyond 
that one offer on Mr. O’More’s demise, she has carefully refrained from 
mixing herself up with their affairs until now, — now when she hears 
that Terry, the despised because impecunious Terry, is about to form 
an alliance with a man rich enough to satisfy even her dreams of 
avarice. 

She comes beaming into the room, her skirts well caught up, her 
ponderous feet showing. 

“ My good girl ! This is excellent news !” she cries, falling upon 
Terry and nearly stifling her in a huge embrace. “ Good heavens ! 
fancy such luck coming to you ! Who’d have thought a man as rich 
as he is would have cast a second thought on a lean little creature like 
you ?” 

Here she catches Fanny’s eye, who is gesticulating to her frantically 
behind Terry’s back. Fanny is fast growing desperate. After all the 
trouble she has taken to bring Terry to the desired point, now here 
comes this meddling silly old woman, saying the very things that are 
likely to make the girl angry enough to break through her late de- 
cision ! 

“ 1 knew you’d be glad, Aunt Bridget,” says Fanny, in a delight- 
ful tone. “ But I must confess I disagree with you about Terry in one 
way. I think,” laughing brightly, “ Gerrard Trefusis will have the 
best of the bargain. But it is a good match, all the same.” 

“ Such wealth !” says Miss Bridget, uplifting her hands. 

“ Oh, not that so much,” says Fanny, prettily. “ He is so good, so 
true, so handsome.” 

“ It is an epoch in her life,” says Miss Bridget, solemnly. “ Te- 
rentia, you must have a new gown for Fanny’s dance. And” — with 
overwhelming generosity— “ I shall give it to you. When does your 
dance come off, Fanny ? Next month ?” 

Terry, who has not spoken up to this, now turns suddenly upon 
the speaker. 

“ I don’t want it!” says she, clearly, distinctly. The words read 
rudely, but Terry does not look rude as she stands there, her face very 
white, her eyes flashing. She looks only troubled, and perhaps a little 
haughty. 

“ It isn’t what you want, it is what I want !” says Miss Bridget, 
autocratically. “ I insist, now that you are engaged to so — so” — 
warned by another frown from Fanny, she changes the word on her 
lips-- so worthy a young man, on your appearing properly dressed 
for once in your life !” 

Terry makes an angry movement. “ One would think I had been 
improperly dressed up to this,” says she, indignantly. 

“You have certainly been shabby at times,” says Miss Bridget, 
who, not being troubled with nerves of her own, is indifferent to the 
sensibility of other people. “I tell you I shall give you a new dress 
for Fanny’s dance: you want one badly.” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


527 


“ And yet you have waited to give it to me until I had promised to 
marry a man with money ,” says the girl, bitterly. “ I don’t want new 
frocks now. I won’t have them.” 

“Dear Terry,” says Fanny, in a low tone, who is in an agony lest 
Terry shall refuse this charming offer from their parsimonious old aunt, 
“ think.” 

“ I am thinking, and — no, I don’t want it,” says Terry, obstinately. 
“ If Mr. Trefusis has liked me in shabby frocks, I don’t see why I 
should put on silks and satins just because I am engaged to him. Per- 
haps he wouldn’t like me in them. King Cophetua” — with a cold 
smile, full of hauteur — “ might not like his beggar-maid without her 
rags.” She turns contemptuously away. 

“ What does she mean ?” demands Miss Bridget, angrily. “ What 
does the girl mean, Fanny ?” 

“ Nothing. Nothing at all,” says Mrs. Adare. “ She is only — you 
know — just a little ttte montee” She puts her fingers lightly to her 
own head to illustrate her meaning. But this, too, is Greek to Miss 
Bridget. 

“ I know nothing of kings !” cries that irate old lady ; “ though,” 
with a cruel glance at Terry, “ of beggary I know much ; and as to 
your foreign languages, Fanny, I would ask you not to trouble me with 
them. Indecent, I call them. What I’ve got to say, and I say it in 
proper English, is that Terentia must and shall be well dressed for 
your dance.” 

“ Ah ! take care what you are doing,” cries Terry, mockingly. 
“What if he no longer fancies me when you have pranked me 
out !” 

“Stuff!” says Miss Bridget. The word “stuff” has been in her 
mind all along, indeed, and she has hardly heard Terry’s little sarcasm, 
so intent is her mind on discovering for how small a sum she may make 
her niece presentable in the eyes of her prospective lover. Yet it can’t 
be stuff. Silk it must be, — at least the underskirt. “A dress you 
must have, for I am determined you shall appear as my niece should.” 

“ I have been your niece for eighteen years,” says Terry, coldly. 

“ Fanny, this is insolence !” says Miss Bridget, rising. 

“ Not at all,” says Fanny, rising too. “ Not at all,” she whispers 
hurriedly in Miss Bridget’s ear. “Mere excitement. Dear Aunt 
Bridget, have patience. When a niece of yours is going to marry a 
man with twenty thousand a year and a title in prospect, no wonder her 
wits go a bit astray.” 

That touch about the title is even more subtle than the one about 
the money. Miss Bridget sinks back in her chair, much mollified. 

Fanny goes over to where Terry is standing, angry, hurt, her face a 
very picture of disgust. 

“ Look here, Terry ; don’t be a fool,” says her cousin, softly. 
“ Every girl likes a new dress. And you are just like the rest : so 
don’t give yourself airs. It may be proper pride to refuse things from 
me, who am only your cousin (though I don’t think so, mind), but to 
refuse them from Aunt Bridget is pure folly. Pull yourself together, 
you little goose, and see how things are. You will want your trousseau 


528 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


from her later on. I only wish to goodness” — she laughs, and turns 
to where Miss Bridget is sitting — “ that Aunt Bridget would see her 
way to giving me a gown !” 

To Mrs. Adare’s everlasting astonishment, Aunt Bridget rises to the 
bait that had been thrown without any meaning. 

“ As for that, Fanny, Fll give you one too, if you like,” says the 
old miser, slowly. She is so elated by the thought that one of her 
nieces is going to make so distinguished a marriage, that not only her 
heart-strings but her purse-strings are expanded. 

“ What !” says Mrs. Adare. “ Aunt Bridget ! Let me fall upon 
your neck. You really mean it ? A prayer shall be said for you night 
and morning for a month.” 

“ My own prayers are sufficient for me,” says Miss Bridget, austerely, 
who is of the Low-Church party, and scents ritualism in Fanny’s 
words. “ You can order the dress at your own woman’s, Fanny ; but 
it must not be too expensive, mind.” 

“Oh, I’ll mind,” says Fanny, who is already wondering what is 
the most expensive material now in fashion. “ And now for Terry,” 
says she. “ What shall it be, Terry ? White, of course. But ” 

“ You can arrange it,” says the girl, drearily. She flings herself 
into a chair as if nothing any longer is of any consequence to her, and 
gazes fixedly out of the window. 

“You give us carte blanche , then?” says Fanny, enchanted at 
having got her consent at all. “ Perhaps you are wise. Aunt Bridget 
and I will manage it. We’ll make you a Queen of Beauty. — Going 
now, Aunt Bridget? Well, good-by. You will be sure to come to 
the rector’s lecture to-night ?” 

Aunt Bridget, having said “ Yes” to this, disappears, whereupon 
Mrs. Adare goes up to Terry. 

“ You lucky girl !” cries she. 

“ I don’t feel at all lucky,” says Terry, disconsolately. “ I don’t 
want to marry any one.” 

“ Bless me ! I wasn’t thinking of Gerrard. I was thinking of 
that terrible old woman who has just left us. To marry Gerrard is a 
triumph, of course, but to be able to get a gown out of Aunt Bridget 
puts everything else into the shade. Good gracious ! it lifts you to the 
heights of genius.” 

“ You must be a genius too,” says Terry, resentfully. “ She is 
giving you a dress as well.” 

“ Ah ! but that was basely come by, in comparison !” 

“ And yet you pretended to be grateful to her.” 

“ My dear child, I am grateful. A gown is a gown always.” 

“ But to say you would pray for her !” 

“ Well, doesn’t she want prayers, and are we not ordered to pray 
for all Turks ?” asks Mrs. Adare, giving way to a burst of frivolous 
if irresistible laughter. 

“You are too bad, Fanny,” says Terry, who is laughing in spite 
of herself. Suddenly, however, as though struck by a thought, her 
laughter dies away. Her eyes are on the window. “ Fanny ! here 
he is ! he is coming! Fanny, will you stay with me?” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 529 

Not likely,” says Fanny, picking up her gloves and flying to the 


door. 

“ But what shall I say to him ?” wringing her hands in her distress. 
“ Say 6 Yes !’ ” cries Fanny, with a little malicious grin, as she runs 
out of the door-way and down the back-stairs to the garden, so as to 
escape him. 


CHAPTER V. 

Fancy paints with hues unreal 
Smile of bliss and sorrow’s mood : 

If they both are hut ideal, 

They reject the seeming good. 

“ Well?” says Trefusis. He has come forward to meet Terry, 
as the latter, with all the air of a first-class misdemeanant on the way 
to execution, comes into the drawing-room, — the poor old drawing- 
room that surely never has seemed so shabby as it does to-day. He 
is a tall man of about twenty-eight, with a slight but powerful figure 
and rather large hands and feet. There is something powerful about 
the lean face, too, — something rather too masterful, perhaps, especially 
about the lower jaw. His eyes are a very dark gray, and his hair is 
cropped as close to his head as any woman could desire. Strictly 
speaking, he could never be considered handsome, — not half so good- 
looking, for example, as Laurence O’More, who might pose at any 
moment as a young Apollo. His mouth is too severe, his nose too 
straight, his eyes too searching; but, in spite of all these defects, 
Gerrard Trefusis is a man not lightly to be loved or hated. 

He has come across the room to meet her, but he has not even 
attempted to take her hand. He had told himself that he would leave 
it to her entirely. That silence of hers last night, that half-accept- 
ance, — or was it a half-refusal? — had stirred him. He would not 
coerce her by soft words or tender actions. That she does not love 
him now he knows, but in time she may learn to love him. It seems 
to him, however, that it would be dishonorable to entice her into an 
engagement which she might afterwards learn to regret. Let her 
make her own choice, free and unfettered. Perhaps there is some 
pride mixed up with this Spartan resolve. 

Unfortunately, Terry somewhat spoils the magnanimity of his reso- 
lution by holding out her hand to him, courtesy compelling her to the 
act. He takes it, and holds it closely enough, but with nothing beyond 
that to show the girl the depth of the love that burns within his heart. 

“How d’ye do?” says Terry, shaking his hand nervously, almost 
warmly. She is feeling frightened to death. How tall he looks ! how 
stern ! She tries to meet him as an every-day acquaintance ; she pushes 
a chair towards him ; she even attempts to give him her usual smile 
reserved for visitors ; but this is a distinct failure. 

“ I told you I should come,” says Trefusis, ignoring the smile 
and the chair alike. He feels as if he could not sit down until this 
is settled. 

“ Yes, I know,” says Terry, giving up the society air and sinking 
Vol. LII. — 34 


530 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


into deep depression. “I told you, too — that I — you remember? — 
that I ” 

“ That you did not love me ?” says Trefusis, in a perfectly matter-of- 
fact tone. There is such an utter dearth of emotion in it that Terry’s 
nervousness disappears as if by magic. It seems to brace her to the 
task before her. If he doesn’t really care 

“ It is not a thing to forget,” says Trefusis. “ But you told me 
also that you loved no one else.” 

“ That is quite as true,” says she, coldly. His calmness has net- 
tled her almost beyond bearing. “ I love no one but the boys and 
Fanny.” 

“ I do not fear them,” says Trefusis. 

“ No ?” His confident tone annoys her. If he could only know 
how far above her bare toleration of him these dear ones count, he 
might speak less certainly. Yet perhaps that is why he does so speak, 
she tells herself with a sigh, because he knows that for their sakes — 
the boys’ sakes — she is going to say “ Yes.” 

“All that is nothing,” says Trefusis, suddenly. There had been a 
little pause. “ We went through that last night. The answer I want 
to-day has to do with one question only. Will you marry me?” 

Was there ever so bald, so unlover-like a proposal? Terry stands 
silent. A whole minute goes by. In that minute she tells herself 
that he does not love her ; and yet, if not, why does he want to marry 
her? It is a riddle insoluble. She draws a sharp quick breath. 
Then — 

“Yes,” she says, bravely. Her face is as white as death, — so 
white that it checks the words on Trefusis’s lips and kills the growing 
gladness in his eyes. 

“ You would rather say ‘ No’ ?” says he, very quietly, but distinctly. 

Terry throws up her head. Her large eyes flash defiance into his. 

“ I have said ‘ Yes,’ ” says she. “ Would you prefer that I should 
say ( No’ ?” 

Trefusis smiles. It is a pity she does not see the smile, there is 
so much strange sweetness in it. But the girl’s eyes are bent upon 
the ground. They are heavy with tears, tears she would not have let 
him see for a king’s ransom. 

“You cannot so misjudge me,” says Trefusis, gently. “ I am glad 
indeed that you have said ‘ Yes.’ My only regret is that you cannot 
say it more willingly. But I hope — time will help me.” 

He lifts her hand and presses it to his lips. To her it seems such 
a foolish formal act, yet she is thankful too that he desires no more of 
her than this slight caress upon her hand. She makes no objection to 
that ; her little hand lies limp and unsympathetic within his. 

“ As to that,” says she, his last words ringing in her ears, “ you 
must let me say something. It” — lifting shy uncertain eyes to his — 
“ it is quite true that I care for no one — in that way. But time, that 
you speak of, may not make me care for you — in ” 

“ That way,” Trefusis repeats. “ Yes, I know. I understand ; and 
I take the risk.” 

“ There is something more,” says Terry, wretchedly. Will nothing 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 531 

touch him, hurt him, offend him ? Has he no pride ? Will nothing 
send him away ? 

“ I want to be quite fair with you. I want to tell you I” — 

miserably and in a most ashamed little way that is full of sweetness — 
“ must tell you that I am marrying you only because I think it will be 
so good for — for ” 

“ The boys ?” says Trefusis, slowly, seeing she cannot go on. “ Yes, 
I know even that. Fanny, without knowing it, let me see it. Well, 
I will be good to the boys. Is that all ? Is there any other thing 
that must yet be told ?” 

Terry turns suddenly upon him, a passion of anger, of despair, 
within her heart. 

“ There is ! ” cries she. “ Why do you want to marry me ? How 
could any one want to marry a girl who does not love him, — who 
thinks only of her own people, — who ” 

“ You spoke of riddles just now,” says he, interrupting her un- 
ceremoniously. “ This is mine. You can give any answer to it that 
you like. I shall only say that, in spite of all your reasons to the 
contrary, I still want to marry you.” 

“Well, I have told you,” says she, slowly, heavily. 

“ You have, indeed.” 

A silence follows upon this. He breaks it. 

“ Perhaps you thought your honesty would induce me to withdraw 
from my proposal,” says he, in a curious tone ; “ but, if so, you were 
mistaken. It has only waked in me a stronger desire for you. I like 
honesty.” 

“ Sometimes honesty sounds like rudeness,” says Terry, coldly. 
She has given up all hope of being able to get rid of this good match 
that has been thrust upon her. “ I hope you exonerate me from that ; 
actual rudeness, I mean.” 

“ I am not a fault-finder,” says Trefusis. “ Is that how you re- 
gard me? Iam sure, at all events, I shall never find a fault in you.” 

Later on these words of his trouble her mind, and she threshes 
them through and through. Was there a threat conveyed in them? 
a threat that he would be on the lookout for faults ? or was it a flatter- 
ing declaration that as yet he had seen no fault in her ? 

He rises to go. 

“ Shall I see you at the rector’s lecture to-night ?” he asks. His 
voice is that of a mere ordinary acquaintance. 

“ Yes, I think so. Fanny is going, I know. And the boys want 
to go.” 

“ Ah ! the boys ! If it is for the good of the boys, of course you 
will go. And” — he hesitates to watch her face — “and so of course 
shall I.” 

“ I hope you will never make yourself uncomfortable because of 
the boys,” says she, hurriedly, anxiously. “That is not necessary, 
really ; and, besides ” 

“ Besides,” says he, interrupting her again, “ I am bound to go ; 
I’ve promised the rector to sing for him in between the pauses of his 
lecture. Nature most unkindly has given me a sort of a voice, and 


532 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


you see what a martyr it makes of me. You will be there too— with 
the boys?” 

“ Yes, I suppose so.” 

“ You don’t want to go?” says he, suddenly. 

“ Not very much.” She glances at him for a second, then her eyes 

fall. 

“Is your cousin, Mr. O’More, to be there to-night?” 

“Iam not sure; he has been at Ballybrack all day. He may be 
home in time. But why ?” J 

“ A mere matter of curiosity,” says Trefusis, in a queer tone. He 
goes suddenly to her and takes her hands and clasps them hard. 

‘‘Jou have said that you love no one but the boys,” says he. 
“Will you swear that?” } 

Terry shakes herself free of him passionately. 

I never swear, says she. “ I have told you : believe me or not 
as you will.” 

She looks beautiful as she stands back from him, her head on hio-h 
her large eyes burning with angry fire. Trefusis, staring at her, reads 
truth in those angry depths. 

“ I do believe you,” says he ; yet he leaves her without another 
word, a touch of her haud, a glance. 


CHAPTER VI. 

He came unlooked for, undesired. 

The school-room, a bare, desolate sort of room on week-days is 
looking quite festive to-night. It is arrayed in a glory unprecedented • 
the decorations hitherto have been confined to a few decorous boughs 
of evergreens carefully placed here and there where the damp patches 
on the wall are most conspicuous, but this evening the room seems 
ablaze with color. There is something, indeed, positively bacchanalian 
about the hitherto modest old school-room. 

All the candles, arranged in sconces against the bare whitewashed 
walls, have been dressed a la ballet. Frivolous little skirts of pink 
and yellow tissue-paper have been hung on little frames around them 
regretfully short little skirts, too, sticking out in a disgracefully 
flaunting fashion, and making the candles look like danseuses with 
only one white leg instead of two. 

. I° r lamps, they put the candles completely in the shade 

being redder, skirtier, even more ballet-ish. As yet gas has not found 
its way to this small town, and electric light, if they had even heard 
of it, would have been regarded by the shopkeepers and small farmers 
as a device of the devil to allure their souls to perdition. « Perdi- 
tion” the place is always called in Ballymore, the shorter word being 
considered rude. 5 

A little stage — they would have died, however, if you had called it 
that : they are very Low-Church in Ballymore,— a little erection, let 
us therefore say, has been made at the end of the room, and this is 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


533 


covered with a thin scarlet substance that looks admirable from a dis- 
tance, but which has an unfortunate trick of catching up the unwary 
one and following after the train of the lady’s gown that moves over 
it. u Turkey red” is what the shopkeeper called it when he sold it this 
morning to Miss Gabbett, the rector’s sister. It has a queer smell, and 
it feels damp. 

Wreaths of ivy and laurel droop from every possible corner and are 
hanging from every beam. A particularly splendid wreath of roses is 
suspended from the central lamp. This is evidently meant to be the 
chef-d’ceuvre of the evening; but, unfortunately, the roses have suc- 
cumbed to the heat, and their leaves are hanging dead. 

When Terry enters, accompanied by the boys, the room is quite 
full, and the foreign missionary who is staying with the rector, and who 
has offered to enlighten the inhabitants of Ballymore about the present 
state of Jerusalem, is already on the platform. The rector has bor- 
rowed a magic-lantern from a clerical friend in the next parish (who 
has some slides supposed to represent streets and scenes of the ancient 
city), and is now going over the lantern and examining the slides, ob- 
livious of the fact that his sister, a tart old maid of about sixty, is 
beckoning to him to come and arrange seats for the Hall party, who 
have just arrived. 

They had come only a moment before Terry and her brothers. 
Terry had purposely held back from entering until Fanny, accompanied 
by Trefusis and followed by at least a dozen people, had gone in first. 
This had annoyed the boys, who were eager for the lantern, and who 
would indeed, if their wishes had been granted, have been seated before 
the lamps were lit. Now, to their disgust, Terry elects to sit on a bench 
just behind Miss Gabbett (their pet aversion, at whose hands they have 
suffered much), in quite a dark corner, a place that barely divides the 
sheep from the goats, — that is, the townspeople from their betters. 

“ Can’t you move on, Terry ?” asks Geoffrey, in an angry whisper. 
“ What do you want to sit behind this old cat for?” 

Providentially, Miss Gabbett is deaf. 

“ No, no. Stay here. It is a very good place, and we can see so 
well.” She seats herself resolutely ; she is glad of the dark, of the 
quiet ; she dreads the thought of going into the fuller light, with the 
fresh new terrible change in her life still tormenting her. She has not 
even told the boys about it. Some undefined feeling has kept her 
tongue silent. She did not say to herself that the boys were very fond 
of Larry, but she thought of it all the same. And do they like Mr. 
Trefusis? They have had hardly an opportunity to like or dislike; 
she has therefore been actually afraid to say a word to them about it, 
especially as they have been in a rather truculent mood all day. It 
was something about Miss Gabbett. At dinner, she remembers now, 
they had said something to her disparagement. She had been scolding 
them when they were at the rectory for their lessons. She had evidently 
been at her worst with them, and that would be very bad indeed. Miss 
Gabbett’s tongue is a sword. And the boys are always at war with her. 

“ Be quiet, Geoff. Mr. Dormer is going to begin.” Mr. Dormer 
is the foreign missionary. 


534 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Well, I hate being here/’ says Max, rebelliously, his beautiful 
face growing dark. 

“ You have come,” says a voice behind Terry. She starts violently. 
She has not once looked towards Fanny’s party, or she would have 
seen that Trefusis rose at once on her entrance and came towards her. 

“ Fanny wants to know if you won’t come over and sit with her.” 

“ No. Tell her no,” says Terry, hurriedly. “ I would rather sit 
here. I” — with an anxious little laugh — t( I should be afraid to cross 
the room before all those eyes.” 

“ I suppose you could not give me a seat here?” says Trefusis. At 
this both the boys, whose ears are wide open, rise simultaneously to 
their feet. 

“ Sit down,” says Terry, turning to them indignantly. Hateful 
boys ! She feels as if she could willingly box their ears : yet only 
yesterday she would have felt nothing but a sisterly admiration for 
their excellent good manners. Not that manners have much to do 
with it in this case ; a desire to escape from the proximity of Miss 
Gabbett has given a stimulus to the boys’ courtesy. Besides, to be 
near Fanny; Fanny is such fun! Poor boys! they are doomed to 
disappointment. 

“ You must not be offended,” says Terry, deliberately, looking with 
a fair show of courage into Trefusis’s face, “ but I hope you will go 

away. I could not bear Oh, do go ! They will all be talking, 

and asking me questions. I — it is dreadful !” she says, turning very 
pale. 

Her courage breaks down here, her voice trembles. 

“ I am going,” he replies, calmly. He rather admires this shrink- 
ing from publicity, from observation, so sure to follow on her engage- 
ment to him. “ I would go away altogether,” says he, rising and 
preparing to return to Mrs. Adare, “ but that I have promised Mr. 
Gabbett to sing something for him during the pauses in the lecture.” 

“ You sing?” says Terry, with some amazement. She has forgotten 
that he told her before. She has seen him so often, but had never 
thought of him as one who could sing. 

“ Occasionally,” smiling : then suddenly he looks back at her ; he 
has taken a step or two away. “ I shall sing to you,” he says, gravely. 

By this time the lecture has commenced and the rector is showing 
off his slides. The lights have been lowered, and, except for the ballet- 
dancers planted along the walls, all is gloom. Jerusalem, in little 
spasmodic jerks, is being shown to a breathless audience. 

Jerusalem as here described must be a truly remarkable place. No 
wonder so many people nowadays make pilgrimages to it. 

The lecturer has grown a little hoarse over Bethany and Nazareth, 
and is now working himself into a fever over a full-blown view of the 
Holy City. The coloring is immense. The clouds are indigo of the 
deepest dye. The walls are red as blood ; most of the houses are of 
the tint of yellow ochre, and the rest are a pale and sickly pink. The 
prevailing color through all the slides, however, is vermilion, and the 
more vermilion the greater the success, to judge by the shouts of the 
village children in the rear. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


535 


Mr. Dormer is prosing along in the orthodox style. He is a tall, 
sad-visaged man, dull from life’s fight with the Jews, and evidently 
without a joke left in him, if ever he knew the meaning of one. Not 
that it matters ; no one is listening to him ; the slides have all the 
attention that can be spared from a round of low-voiced gossip. Here 
in the dark, where no one can be seen, it is found delightfully easy to 
whisper little bits of scandal into one’s neighbors’ ears. 

Once great applause breaks forth : this is when the rector, to whom 
the lantern is somewhat of a Chinese puzzle, puts in one of the slides 
upside down. This shows a camel with its four legs in the air, 
and some specimens of the human form that look dismembered. It 
is a great success : every one grows hysterical. Old Mr. Martin, the 
butcher, standing up in the corner, asks, excitedly, “ What’s thim 
wild animals there?” and is very angry when the mistake is explained 
to him. Mrs. Adare is in convulsions; and as for the two O’More 
boys, there is “ no houldin’ thim,” as their old nurse would have said. 

Miss Gabbett looks back indignantly. 

“ Geoffrey, cease that noise !” says she, in a loud whisper. 

“ Every one is laughing as well as me,” returns Geoffrey, angrily. 

“ Silence, sir, whilst your superiors are speaking !” says Miss Gab- 
bett, alluding to the good rector, who is now explaining his mistake. 

“ It is you who are speaking,” says Geoffrey, raging ; and there 
threatens to be a prolonged scuffle between him and Miss Gabbett, 
when Terry comes to the rescue. 

“ Be quiet, Geoffrey,” says she, whereon Geoffrey stops speaking, 
and broods on vengeance. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” says the rector, good-humoredly, “the 
camel, in the last picture I had the pleasure of showing you, had evi- 
dently proved refractory. It must have upset its riders. It was a 
thoroughly realistic representation. I hope you will take it as such.” 

Here all the old ladies prick up their ears and begin to whisper. 
“Realistic!” Is that word orthodox! Is it High-Church? Did he 
mean ritualistic? The rector has been secretly accused lately of a 
leaning towards flowers and decorations. And perhaps the society of 
a man fresh from “ India’s coral strand” and Ceylon’s spicy isle (they 
all call it Cee-lone when they sing that hymn, and many of them think 
the “ ile” is “ Macassar”) would be very likely to upset his views 
still further. Missionaries are hardly respectable sometimes. Living 
so much among savages is so deteriorating ! 

The lecture is once more in full swing. The lights are a little 
lower than before, and the vengeance in Geoffrey’s breast is growing 
stronger. Unfortunately, the means to gratify it are in his grasp. 
Some misguided person had given him an orange on his way through 
the village, and this he now presses into the service. Under cover of 
the darkness he leans forward, and by the aid of a long piece of cord 
fastens it securely to one of the ribbons hanging at the back of his 
enemy’s cap. 

Terry, happening to glance in his direction, sees him leaning for- 
ward suspiciously close to the old lady’s back. A sudden misgiving 
seizes her : she knows Geoffrey and his capabilities. What is he doing ? 


536 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


A thrill of fear shoots through her: she too leans forward. Almost 
her hand is on his, when, looking up, he sees her intention, and sees, 
too, the coming destruction of his hopes. Quick as lightning he draws 
back, lifts his arm, and sends the orange shooting into space. 

Into space goes Miss Gabbett’s cap with it. There is a wild if 
smothered skirl on her part ; up go her two hands to her bald head. 
There is one awful moment. Even slides have ceased to attract. 
Miss Gabbett’s head carries all before it. Then Terry, sheltered by 
the providential gloom, dashes forward, picks up the cap, and trem- 
blingly pushes it down once more upon Miss Gabbett’s head, then 
sinks half fainting on her seat. 

The lecturer has seen nothing: he has gone on with his prosing. 
Miss Gabbett is muttering and snorting with wrath. 

“ Go home, Geoffrey,” says poor Terry, in a low but terrible voice ; 
and Geoffrey, disgraced but unrepentant, moves down three yards or 
so on the empty bench and there sits out the remainder of the perform- 
ance. Terry pretends not to see him. 

And now the first half of the lecture is at an end. Trefusis, 
rising, goes up the steps to the little platform, and Mrs. Connor, a 
friend of Fanny’s, who has offered to accompany him, strikes the first 
chords of his song. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Ah ! were she pitiful as she is fair ! 

O yes ! O yes ! O yes 1 
Here is a pretty mess ! 

A maiden’s heart is gone, 

And she is left forlorn ! 

His singing is a revelation to Terry. Passionately susceptible to 
the delights of music, her whole soul seems to thrill within her as his 
rich voice resounds through the room, filling it with melody. The tender 
waves rise and fall ; the words come to her distinctly ; not one of them 
is lost. He had said he would sing to her ; and what is it he is 
singing ? 

Oh, touch that rose-bud, it will bloom, 

My lady fair, 

A passionate red in dim green gloom, 

A joy, a splendor, a perfume, 

That sleeps in air. 

You touched my heart, it gave a thrill, 

Just like a rose 

That opens at a lady’s will ; 

Its bloom is always yours until 
You bid it close. 

Mortimer Collins’s charming verses, set to some charming sounds ! 
But the sounds are even more, to this girl whose heart is not awake, 
than the words. She is entranced. She leans forward, watching him, 
listening, delighted. She had not known he could sing like that. 
She has forgotten everything, the people, her dread of their observa- 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 537 

tion, even Larry, — Larry, who is standing, his back against the side 
of the small platform, glowering at her. 

“ You touched my heart.” The girl, looking at Trefusis, finds his 
eyes fixed earnestly on her. This gives her a little shock, but the 
power of his singing is so great that she does not draw back from that 
deep gaze, and even when it is over she still looks at him and smiles 
faintly. It is the vaguest smile, born altogether of her joy in his 
singing, not at all of her joy in him, and Trefusis is strong enough to 
acknowledge this to himself and keep away from her. Yet because 
of that smile there is high hope in his heart as he goes back to his seat. 

Ah me! ah me! what frugal cheer 
My love doth feed upon ! 

Miss Anson pushes her skirts aside and greets him as he returns to 
where she sits. She is a tall girl, very handsome, with fine shoulders, 
and a fine nose too, remarkably Roman. She had heard a little of the 
new engagement during the day, but had chosen to disregard it as un 
fait accompli . She had indeed desired to engage herself to him, and 
was therefore unwilling to believe that that little ill-dressed girl Miss 
O'More had spoiled her chance. But she had watched him as he sang, 
and, being by no means a fool, had understood the look he had bent 
on Terry. To make assurance doubly sure, however, she had, during 
the pause after the first verse, asked Fanny more directly about it, and 
received a full account at once. 

“I must congratulate you,” says she now, when Trefusis has seated 
himself beside her, his heart full of Terry and that last strange smile 
she had given him. 

“You have heard?” says Trefusis, pleasantly. “Yes, you may 
congratulate me, indeed.” 

“ Well, I have done it.” She pauses and looks at him. “ She is 
very clever,” says Miss Anson. 

Something in her tone nettles him. 

“What do you mean by that?” he asks, quickly. 

“ That” — sweetly — “ she is very clever.” 

“‘Very charming' would describe her better.” 

“You think,” lifting her brows, “that she isn't clever, then?” 

“No. Certainly not. What I think is, that she is both.” 

“ Ah ! Perhaps so,” with a shrug of her shapely shoulders, — such 
beautiful shoulders, and so exquisitely white and rounded, — a trifle too 
rounded, perhaps, too matured, but very handsome for all that ; and 
she is so perfectly dressed too. His eyes turn quickly to where Terry 
sits, in her dark plain little frock, with her slender figure, her high- 
bred air. How impossible to compare them ! “ Perhaps so,” says 

Miss Anson, smiling doubtfully. “ But certainly she is clever.” 

“You mean something,” says Trefusis. 

“Well, since you will have it,” laughing, “I think you will find 
that the girl who, without a penny, captures the man with many pen- 
nies, will always be called by the world — clever.” 

“ She has not captured me, in the sense you mean,” says Trefusis, 
warmly. 


538 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


“ No ?” She laughs again. “ You have captured her, then ?” 

“ I object to the word altogether,” says Trefusis, who has now 
regained his usual cool manner. “ It does away with freedom, — the 
freedom of choice.” 

“Ah ! Freedom!” Miss Anson twirls her fan meaningly. “Is 
she free?” 

“ Free ?” What does she mean ? Trefusis regards her curiously : 
what strange suggestion would she make ? He knows Terry is not 
in love with him, but he has her word for it that she loves no other man. 

“ Oh, don’t look so horrified,” says Miss Anson, in a delightfully 
amused tone. She has been studying his face, and has perhaps drawn 
some amusement out of it, though of a rather bitter description. “ I 
know nothing of a rival : I was only wondering — very stupidly, no 
doubt — whether any girl could be free, circumstanced as she is : free 
to choose, I mean. A girl so poor, is she not always bound and fet- 
tered, compelled, as it were, to accept any chance that Heaven — or the 
other place — may send her ?” 

“You misjudge her. Miss O’More would be a difficult person to 
compel,” says Trefusis, coldly. “ And,” with a still colder smile, “ you 
are not very flattering to me.” 

“ Oh, you ! It is good for you ! You have had too much flattery 
all your days !” says Miss Anson, with a quick little glance that has 
coquetry in it. Unfortunately, the magic-lantern being once more re- 
quired, the lights are at this moment abruptly lowered, so that the 
glance is unseen. There are few things ruder than a magic-lantern en- 
tertainment. The lecture is again in full swing. More hectic grow 
the lights of Jerusalem. Standing out, as they do, from the surround- 
ing gloom, they positively glow. 

Max O’More, much pleased with their florid effects, looks around 
for Geoffrey, and, perceiving that in his disgraced corner he can see 
but little of the joys spread out for the parish, even though he should 
crane his long young neck to the uttermost, is filled with pity and 
quick rage. Poor old Geoff! After all, what had he done? Only 
given that old cat her deserts. Well, if Geoffrey is to be punished 
for nothing, he will be punished too. A fond but unfortunate desire 
to share Geoffrey’s trouble leads. him to regard with a thoughtful eye 
the huge board on which is written in big letters the programme for the 
evening : 

Lecture by the Rev. H. Dormer, M.A. 

Magic-Lantern Rev. Canon Gabbett. 

Song. 

“ Oh, touch that rose-bud !” .... Mr. Trefusis. 

and so on, until it comes to 

Duet. 

“ What are the wild waves saying?” . Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Dormer. 

Alas ! when Max’s eyes come to this, they stay there. They dwell 
upon it ; in the darkness a broad smile widens on his youthful lips ; in 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


539 


the darkness he creeps towards that programme. There is a little 
scrape-scrape to be heard, — nothing more ; and now Max creeps back 
to his seat by Terry, who has not noticed his going or coming. 

Mrs. Dormer, the wife of the missionary, — a tall, gaunt female, 
who looks as if she ought to have a moustache and whiskers, — had 
kindly consented to delight the people of Ballymore with a duet, in 
which, according to the programme, she had been promised assistance 
by Mrs. Barry, a stout elderly person of sixty, who once, in the dark 
ages, sang at a concert in Dublin, and has ever since insisted on singing 
at every concert in this her native town. In fact, it would not be a safe 
thing to give a concert here without asking Mrs. Barry to “ contribute” 
something. 

She is now “ contributing.” The lecture has ceased again for the 
time being. Once again the lights burn gayly. The duet has com- 
menced. Mrs. Dormer, evidently bursting with a desire to know what 
the “ wild waves” are saying, is singing with all her might. Mrs. 
Barry is trembling with impatience to begin her part. All is going 
well enough, when suddenly an electric shock runs through the assem- 
bly. Some one has chanced to look at the big programme, — and after 
that ! 

A ripple runs through the room, — a ripple of laughter. The 
“ waves” are sounding loudly on the “ small erection,” but the ripple 
rushes through the seats below. 

All eyes are now directed towards the programme. What has 
happened to it ? 

Terry, following the eyes of the others, knows, alas, only too well 
what has happened. Her heart sinks within her. There, where 
“ waves” was once written, the word now is “ wives” ! Somebody has 
scratched out the a and put in an i. Somebody ! How well she knows 
the somebody ! 

As the programme reads now, it is 

“ What are the wild wives saying?” 

What, indeed ? The poor “ wild wives” know nothing of all this. 
They are still pounding away at the duet, shouting at the top of their 
lungs. Mrs. Barry, just now, is addressing Mrs. Dormer as her brother, 
a slight aberration of the intellect, no doubt, and to be excused, as Mrs. 
Dormer in a coat and trousers would not be amiss. Gayly they sing. 

Miss Gabbett has risen ; she is beckoning furiously to her brother. 
Now the rector, recovering from the trance of horror into which he has 
fallen, has come quickly to the front. Involuntarily his eyes seek 
those of Max O’More, and, seeing him the only unsmiling one among 
th.e audience, he knows him at once as the culprit. In a second the 
rector has sprung towards the insulting programme, has torn it down, 
and placed it with its face to the wall. 

Thus a tragedy is averted. 

And now the duet is drawing to a close. The final shrieks are 
reached. The “Yes, yes, yeses” and the “No, no, noes” are over. 
Mrs. Barry has cracked most successfully on the last high note, and all 
is peace. 


540 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

One face alone, one face alone, 

These eyes require ; 

But when that longed-for sight is shown, 

What fatal fire 

Shoots through my veins a keen and liquid flame ? 

To-day has come, has grown, and has broadened to high noon. 
The air is mildness itself. No wind has arisen to stir the gentle shrub- 
beries, yet there have been storms at More House terrible enough to 
almost shake it to its foundations. 

First came the rector. He was dreadfully angry over Miss Gab- 
bett’s cap. The “ wild wives,” he said (though it, too, was a most dis- 
graceful episode), he could pass over in sorrowful silence, but an insult 
to an old lady — and so on. Terry had dissolved into tears. She had 
implored the rector to forgive Geoffrey. She had spoken to him, 
spoken severely, she said, and he had promised her faithfully never to 
do it again. 

“ He won’t have the opportunity,” replied the rector, grimly. “ She 
has spent her whole morning cutting off those streamers behind, and 
making them into big bows in the front of her cap. But it is a great 
grief to her to have to do it,” said he, sighing (Miss Gabbett has led 
his gentle soul a truly awful life for the last forty-five years, but as 
yet he has not quite discovered the fact). “ She — she was very proud 
of those streamers,” said he. 

Eventually Terry made friends with him again, and even induced 
him to say a forgiving word to Geoffrey, who came sulkily enough into 
the room at first, but who, at the first kind word the rector said, 
astounded them all by suddenly flinging himself into his arms and 
clinging to him, sobbing as if his heart would break. In direct ratio 
to his hatred for Miss Gabbett is his love for her brother. He was a 
curious mixture of good and evil, that boy. 

It is now four o’clock. The rector has gone. Geoffrey has been 
consoled by Terry with loving words and kisses, and comforted with 
hot sponge-cake straight out of the oven, and Terry is beginning once 
more to breathe freely, when a second avalanche descends upon her. 

It is Larry this time, — Larry, pale, furious, in a flaming passion. 
He strides up to her across the little garden she calls her own, behind 
those banks where the violets grow, and, catching both her arms, holds 
her as in a vice. 

“ Is it true,” he demands, in a choking voice, “ that you have 
promised to marry that English fellow?” 

“ Yes, it is true, — quite true,” says Terry, in low but heart-broken 
tones. 

“ What a voice !” says Larry, still holding her, still glaring at her. 
“ You aren’t in love with him, then ? I defy you to say you are in 
love with him. Come! Are you ?” 

“ I’m not,” says Terry. Furtively (he has let go one of her hands) 
she wipes her eyes. 

“ Then you are marrying him for his money?” with strong dis- 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER 541 

gust. “ You” — contemptuously — “ ought to be ashamed of your- 

self !” 

“ I am,” says poor Terry, meekly. 

“ Pshaw !” says Laurence. “ Enough of this nonsense. Come into 
the drawing-room and write a line to him at once. Break it off with 
him.” 

“ I can’t. I can’t, indeed. I couldn’t,” nervously. “ And, be- 
sides, I ought not. Both Fanny and Aunt Bridget say it is my posi- 
tive duty to marry him. They say Providence has thrown him in my 
path (I wish,” sadly, “ it hadn’t !), and that on account of the boys 

I ” 

“ I’ll tell you what’s your duty,” says Laurence, vehemently. “ It 
is to marry me !” 

“ Nonsense, Larry ! When we haven’t a penny between us ! And, 
besides,” with a sigh and with much more candor than tact, it must be 
confessed, “you are not at all the sort of person I should like to 
marry !” 

“ Nonsense yourself !” says her cousin, not in the least overcome by 
this rather point-blank declaration. “ You would be as happy as the 
day is long if you were once my wife.” 

“ No, no ! we should do nothing but quarrel from morning till 
night,” says Terry, shaking her head. “ You know, Larry, we are 
never together for five minutes without having a skirmish of some 
sort.” 

“ That’s because I love you,” says Larry, w T ith conviction. “ There 
isn’t another girl in Ballymore I’d be bothered quarrelling with. Is 
there, now?” 

“Still, you know, to spend one’s life quarrelling ” 

“ You know it wouldn’t be like that, Terry. As if I wasn’t your 
slave ! Give up this fellow Trefusis, and listen to me.” 

“ The fact is,” says Terry, her eyes on the ground, “ I don’t want 
to marry any one.” 

“The fact is,” his anger rising again, “you want to be a rich 
woman. Girls are all alike. I thought you would be above that sort 
of thing ; but there isn’t one of you who wouldn’t give her soul for a 
diamond ring.” 

“ Don’t be a fool,” says Miss O’More, tenderly. 

“ You won’t give him up, then?” 

“ There are the boys, — their futures,” says poor Terry, sore dis- 
tressed. 

“ Rubbish ! I never heard a word about the boys’ futures till this 
fellow appeared. Well, go your own way.” He turns towards the 
gate, but she runs after him. 

“ Larry, don’t go like that ; I have no one to talk to, to consult 
with, but you.” 

“ You have Trefusis now.” 

“ Oh, no. Of course I could not speak to him as I do to you.” 

“ ’Pon my word,” indignantly, “ I wish he could hear you.” 

“Well, he can’t, anyway. And, Larry, what’s the good of fight- 
ing with me about this ?” 


542 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Oh, as for that, you know I couldn’t fight with you. I’d kill 
myself the day I couldn’t see you.” 

He loosens her hold on his arm rather roughly, and stalks away. 

Away through the woods that lead to the Hall. He is bent on see- 
ing Fanny, on giving her a piece of his mind first, then remonstrating 
with her, then going on his knees to her to stop this hateful marriage. 

Half-way through the wood he finds himself face to face with 
Trefusis. 

“ How d’ye do ?” says Trefusis, in the ordinary tone. Being an 
Englishman, of course he does not go beyond this formula; he waits 
for the other to speak. 

“ I’ve been down at More House,” says Larry, whose whole frame 
is on fire. 

“Yes?” 

The deliberate calmness of Trefusis infuriates the other. 

“ Yes. And she has told me of her engagement to you.” His face 
grows very white. “ Of her engagement to you /” 

His breath seems to fail him a little. He looks at Trefusis. 

“ You think she is in love with you,” says Larry. 

“ No,” replies Trefusis, plainly. “ Your cousin has herself told 
me that she is not in love with me.” His voice is clear, calm, and dis- 
tinct, yet in spite of his strong effort it is impossible to keep out the 
bitterness that lies in it. “She told me something else, too,” says he, 
gazing straight at Laurence : “ that she loved no one else.” 

Laurence winces. 

“ She told you the truth then, as she surely would,” says he, loyal 
to his love when he would most joyfully have lied, and turns on his 
heel and leaves him. 

Trefusis, in no pleasant frame of mind, keeps on his way to More 
House. Hearing that Terry is outside, he goes in search of her, his 
whole mental bearing towards her a little transversed. 

Why had her cousin made that sudden attack on him, unless — 

unless ! He pushes this suspicion from him as unworthy of her, 

but still with his mind a little inflamed against her. He turns the 
corner and goes straight to where Mrs. Ryan told him she would be, 
in her own little garden where Laurence had left her. 

She is standing beside a tiny flower-bed, with a spade in her hand, 
digging vigorously. Her attitude, her evident unconcern, her plain 
disregard of the stories that are flying around her, fill Trefusis’s almost 
too full heart with anger, — a very calm, self-contained anger, certainly, 
very different from Larry’s, but none the less intense for all that. 

She looks up at him as he draws nearer. Her face is as beautiful 
as usual, perhaps even more beautiful, but it is flushed, tired ! 

Tired ! Trefusis would have refused to acknowledge his anger of 
a moment ago, but here is surely just cause for anger. Why should 
she be slaving, working until her face is red, her hands spoiled, — she, 
who has promised to be his wife ? Surely such an occupation is not 
necessary, is not worthy of her. In the world in which he has lived, 
so rich, so calm, so prosperous, among the women with whom up to 
the present his lot has been cast there has never been one who dug her 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


543 


garden and hoed it with her own hands. The touch of priggishness in 
his character comes to the front now. 

“ I am afraid you will spoil your hands, ” says he, with admirable 
self-control, with undiminished calm, indeed, though inwardly his heart 
is on fire. It is his salutation to her, and the girl resents it. As a 
fact, she is not very safe to approach just now, except with extreme 
tenderness. Last night’s worries with the boys, and to-day’s troubles 
with the rector and Larry, have somewhat overstrung her nerves. 

She looks at him, standing there in her serge gown and pale-blue 
blouse, with her hands grasping the spade, and her face as beautiful as 
Heaven has made it. And, looking at him, something of his thoughts 
grows clear to her, though not all, and wrath takes hold of her. To 
greet her thus, without a gentle word ! 

It is a very quiet wrath, however. 

“ It is either my garden or my hands that must be spoiled,” says 
she, “ and I like my garden the best.” 

There is a note of defiance in her air. As she speaks, she lets the 
spade fall and holds up to him her hands. There is defiance too 
in this gesture. The hands beyond doubt are a little soiled by the 
contact of the brown earth beneath. Her answer seems to annoy 
Trefusis. 

“ I think it .would be better to like one’s hands,” says he, coldly 
but courteously : “ they are of so much more use to one in society.” 

“ That is true,” says Terry, tranquilly. “ One cannot take one’s 
garden into the drawing-room ; one must take one’s hands there. Still, 
one can stay out of the drawing-room.” 

“ I think not,” says Trefusis, who no doubt has cause for much dis- 
pleasure, but who, unhappily, does not know how to cope with this 
present trouble. He looks back at her unflinchingly. “ At least as 
my wife you cannot.” 

“ Oh, your wife !” says she. She stops as if choking. “ You 
should think — think, before it goes too far. I am what I am : nothing 
can change me. You are angry with me now. No, don’t speak : I 
know you are angry. You think I ought not to be digging here. 
Your mother never digged in her garden, or your sisters, or your 
aunts ” 

“ I have no sisters, and no mother,” says Trefusis, in a distant 
tone. 

“No? Well,” with a short little laugh, “even if you had, they 
would not be guilty of such unladylike work as this : I feel sure of 
that. But I — I glory in it. I like it. I’m sorry if you are angry, 
but I do like to dig. I know I shall always go on digging. It is 
better for you to know this at once. In case you might ” 

He interrupts her. 

“ So far as I am concerned, you may go on digging forever,” says 
he, haughtily. “ As it is such a favorite amusement of yours, I shall see 
that there is a place set apart for you in our future home in which you 
can dig and delve to your heart’s content.” 

This he says quite easily in spite of his coldness, — with an ease, 
indeed, that enrages her. 


544 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ You mean, I suppose, that whatever I do must be a matter of 
indifference to you.” 

“ Certainly not. I wished rather to convey to you the idea that 
what was your pleasure should be mine also.” 

“You convey things very queerly,” says Miss O’More. “I 
should have thought you meant the other thing.” 

“ The other thing ?” Trefusis lifts his brows rather superciliously 
as he asks this superfluous question. He would not confess it even to 
himself, but, as a fact, the usual imperturbability of his temper has 
been somewhat overthrown by his encounter with Larry. 

“ You know what I mean,” says Terry, her brow darkening, her 
soft eyes emitting a flash. “ You object to my working in this way ; 
you think I ought to be sitting on a lounge all day long, with my 
hands in my lap. If you really meant that you didn’t object to my 
doing it, you would have said so.” 

“ I thought,” coldly, “ that I had said so.” 

“ You couldn’t have thought that !” she cries, passionately ; “ you 
couldn’t !” With a sudden impetuous movement most unexpected 
by him, she flings her spade at his feet, and, hurrying past him, goes 
towards the house. 

Trefusis, unused to this kind of thing, looks after her thoughtfully. 
He does not attempt to follow her. When she is out of sight he 
stoops, picks up the spade, sticks it into the ground, turns methodically 
towards the garden gate, and so to the front of the house. It is the 
shortest way back to the Hall. 

As he passes the balcony, however, a voice calls to him. Looking 
up, he sees Terry bending over. 

“ I am sorry I was so rude to you,” says she, slowly, formally. 
Her face is a little flushed, her eyes proud, her whole air, it must be 
confessed, far removed from penitence of any sort. If there is regret 
in it, it is certainly of a very haughty kind. “ I beg your pardon.” 

“ Was there anything to beg my pardon about ?” asks Trefusis, un- 
generously. His entire manner, indeed, is so ungenerous that any in- 
ward promptings towards righteous dealing with him that might have 
existed in Terry’s heart are frozen on the spot. If he had only ac- 
cepted her apology, indifferently though it was offered, some small bond 
might have risen between them ; but he is still smarting under a sense 
of injury, and the fact that she almost disdainfully refuses to let her 
eyes rest on his has driven him to the verge of discourtesy. 

“ You are right. I believe there was none,” says she, taking her 
arms off the balcony and turning away. 

“ Terry !” says he, quickly, but too late. She waves her hand 
impatiently and goes into the house. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


545 


CHAPTER IX. 

Shadows we are : our triumph and our trouble 
Pass like a dream, and we are passing too. 

Life is a fancy, glory is a bubble. 

Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue. 

The cocks and the hens are in a high state of indignation : what 
does it all mean, this flying backward and forward through the yard ? 
To Terry with meal in her pretty hands they are quite accustomed, 
but Terry playing hide-and-seek from the stable to the coach-house 
(where, in good times past, the coaches used to be), and from the cow- 
stall to the sheds, is a thing altogether out of their line. The pigeons, 
too, seem greatly upset by the proceedings beneath them, but they are 
up so high in their little homes over the stables that they can afford to 
look down upon the matter with a smiling contempt. 

u Tip,” shouts Geoffrey, having caught hold of Terry’s skirt, but 
ineffectually, for she eludes him and escapes, though with a distinct rent 
in her gown. 

It is a day that makes one wonder if heaven has anything more 
beautiful to show. The light is a pale shimmering gold, the air is de- 
licious. All over the place the perfume of the swooning flowers comes 
to one : on the top of the old wall dark velvety wall-flowers are nod- 
ding their homely heads. Round there in the orchard, just behind the 
yard, “ the place is on fire with roses.” 

It is a week later, — a week that has troubled Trefusis a good deal. 
Every day he had gone down from the Hall to see Terry, and every 
day they had parted on exactly the same terms as they parted the day 
before. It seemed to him impossible to get nearer to the girl, to see 
into her heart, to touch the core of it. He could hold her hand ; she 
had borne that, — endured, he told himself, with extreme bitterness, was 
the word. Twice he had kissed her ; she had said nothing, but she cer- 
tainly had not kissed him. 

At night he used to laugh at himself — there was little gayety in the 
laugh — and wonder why on earth he didn’t make an end of it all, and 
break asunder a connection which redounded to nothing but his own 
discomfiture. Yet when the morning came and he started to see her 
once again, and yet more, when he did see her, he knew he should 
never be the one to sever his life from hers. And through it all a 
deadly jealousy troubled him, — jealousy of her cousin, — of Larry ! 

Every day he saw her at her home, and often in the evenings she 
dined at the Hall. Fanny would have had her come every evening, 
but Terry sometimes made excuses. Now and then, too, she lunched 
with Fanny, but he couldn’t help knowing, from a word here and there, 
that it was less often than before he came on the scene. 

After these luncheons he used to walk back with her through the 
scented woods, and always he was conscious that he made no way with 
her. 

She did not care ! She was marrying him — she had told him that 
frankly that first day — for his money only. But she had told him, too, 
that her heart was free, and he had built a great structure upon that. 

Vol. LII. — 35 


546 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


It seemed now to be crumbling to ruin. Yet to give her up — No. 
Never ! Never ! 

To-day he has come down as usual to pay her his morning visit, — a 
visit seldom accomplished without the boys’ supervision. He has come 
a little earlier this morning, hoping to escape them, to have her quite 
to himself for five minutes. Half-way down the avenue the sound of 
voices, coming from the yard that lies on his right hand, reaches his 
ears. He pauses: is not that her laugh, that ringing silvery peal? 
After it comes a cry of u Caught ! caught !” Surely Geoffrey’s voice 
this time. Evidently there is no escaping the boys. What a pity Mr. 
Gabbett cannot give them their lessons in the morning rather than in the 
afternoon ! The afternoons are always so full, and Terry is so seldom 
at home then. He turns towards the yard with a half-suppressed 
sigh. 

Leading into it from one point is a low gate. To this Trefusis 
goes, and as he comes to it he stands still. There is an excellent view 
of the entire yard from this gate-way, as Trefusis acknowledges to him- 
self a moment later rather grimly. He stops short at the entrance, and 
gazes on the picture before him. 

Behind a huge water-barrel, Terry is standing, stooping low to 
avoid the eyes of her brothers, and beside her, stooping also, is Lau- 
rence O’More. Every now and then either of them peeps out from 
his or her side of the barrel, and as quickly draws back again, but not 
before Trefusis’s angry glance can see that Terry’s charming face is lit 
with laughter. 

Evidently the game of hide-and-seek is now in full swing, but the 
boys are on the wrong scent; they are hunting about down below, 
behind the hay-stack, up in the lofts. Now they are down again, and 
are getting a little warmer. Terry’s face glancing out from behind the 
barrel is growing full of excitement. She darts back behind her shel- 
ter, and Trefusis, from where he is standing, can see that she is whis- 
pering to her companion. 

Meantime, the foe is drawing ever nearer, and, to add to the dis- 
comfiture of the two in hiding, a flock of soft white pigeons, coming 
swooping back to their homes in the yard, fresh from their petty lar- 
cenies committed in the cornfields around them, make straight for Terry. 
Are they not sure of their crumbs when she is near ? 

The boys being now in the stable, Terry has the courage to show 
herself, to raise her hands, to try and frighten away her feathered 
friends. In vain ! Lower and lower they descend, their soft silvery 
wings gleaming in the sunlight. 

Trefusis can see her rise in desperate stress, can see her uplifted 
arms, can almost hear her lips cry, “ Cush ! Cush !” though she says it 
in the softest whisper. He can see, too, that the pigeons think nothing 
of this, are not in the least afraid of their loving mistress. Bodily 
they descend upon her, perching on head and arms and dainty shoulders, 
cooing loudly the while. 

And now the boys are out again. They see the pigeons. Where 
the pigeons are, there surely is Terry. A piercing war-whoop bursts 
from them. Terry springs to her feet and stands for a second laughing, 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 547 

her snowy betrayers still flattering round her; then she springs for- 
ward, Laurence after her, the boys in hot pursuit. 

They so head her that she makes straight for the small gate where 
stands Justice, — that is, Trefusis. She is laughing as she runs; her 
face is all alight, full of a beautiful, almost childish, excitement. 

The fair full earth, the enraptured skies, 

She images in constant play : 

Night and the stars are in her eyes, 

But her sweet face is beaming day, 

A bounteous interblush of flowers, 

A dewy brilliance in a dale of bowers. 

She has run almost into Trefusis’s arms — into his presence, rather, 
for his arms are certainly at this moment not ready to receive her — be- 
fore she sees him. 

Then she stops short. The lovely light dies from her eyes, the 
laughter from her lips. 

“ You !” she says, faintly. 

Trefusis says nothing. For the first time in his excellently well 
regulated life, he finds himself without words. That change in her 
face ! The dying away of the mirth, the happy laughter ! He had 
been angry because O’More was with her, but that hardly counts now. 
He can think of only one thing, that when she saw him her pretty face 
fell, her pretty smile died. 

A very rage of anger against her surges in his heart. 

“ Oh ! I didn’t know,” she cries, breathing quickly both from sur- 
prise and her late fast run, “ that you were coming so early.” 

“ So I perceive,” says Trefusis, dryly. 

Terry turns round as if to say something to Larry or the boys, but 
they are nowhere to be seen. Larry, scenting trouble in the air, has 
considerately carried her brothers away with him. Thus deserted, 
Terry once more looks at Trefusis. 

“ We were playing hide-and-seek,” she says, nervously. 

It is the unhappiest thing, but her nervousness only angers him 
still further. What has he done to her, that she should show actual 
distrust of him ? What has there been in all his dealings with her to 
cause her to know fear, however slight, however transitory ? 

“ I am sorry I was unfortunate enough to interrupt you,” he says, 
calmly, without a trace in his voice of the emotion that is stirring him 
to his heart’s core. This is his misfortune. If he had stormed at her, 
scolded her heartily, shown himself abominably jealous, she could have 
understood him, — having been brought up in an atmosphere where 
every one said just what he or she thought at the moment, where anger, 
justly shown, was accepted in a right spirit, and a storm or two in the 
week considered of little consequence. That Trefusis, though she knew 
he must be angry with her, should refrain from saying so, makes him 
at once even a greater stranger to her than he was before. Larry would 
have said so much ! and then she could have explained ; but he, Mr. 
Trefusis, he will say nothing. She feels suffocated. Suddenly a sense 
of anger, most honest anger, stirs her breast. She turns to him a 
charming face, now all frowning with her thought. 


548 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Why don’t you say what is in your mind ?” she cries, her head 
well upheld. “ Why are you hiding things? Why don’t you say at 
once that you are furious because I was playing hide-and-seek with 
Larry ? Why shouldn’t I play hide-and-seek with him and the boys? 
I’ve played it all my life up to this, and nobody ever was angry with 
me before. As for Larry, he is as good as my brother ” 

“ Better, no doubt,” says Trefusis, misunderstanding her purposely. 

“ You know what I mean !” stamping her foot. “ He is the same 
to me as if he were my brother. Why shouldn’t he be?” 

“ You have already two,” says Trefusis. “ But I assure you I do 
not grudge you another. What I do grudge is that I have come here 
at an unfortunate time, and so spoiled your amusement.” 

“ You have not spoiled it.” 

“ Judging by your face ” 

“ My face?” She colors hotly. “ I was slightly taken aback, cer- 
tainly, because, as I have said, I know you do not like me to — to ” 

“ Enjoy yourself?” suggests Trefusis, coldly. “ Is that the view 
you take of it, — of me ? It is not a correct one : I so desire your en- 
joyment that I shall go now. I half promised to call at the rectory, so 
perhaps when my visit there is at an end you will be able to receive 
me — to ” 

“ Ah ! I knew you were angry,” says Terry, contemptuously. 
“ And all because of Larry !” 

There is so much truth in the accusation that Trefusis makes her 
no answer for a moment. Then, “ Do you think I have no cause to be 
jealous ?” he asks, calmly. 

She stares at him. Then something like laughter grows in her 
pretty eyes, chasing the anger out. 

“Oh! Jealous!” says she. “Fancy you being jealous!” She 
looks and evidently is amused, though in a somewhat supercilious 
style. 

“You do not give me credit for even so much feeling,” says Tre- 
fusis, regarding her curiously. What does she think about him? 
What are her thoughts ? Perhaps there are no thoughts at all. “ Yet,” 
says he, “ I can feel, now and again.” 

He takes a step nearer to her, to where she is leaning on the old 
gate, idly, and perhaps a little defiantly, swinging herself to and fro. 
“ I feel that if I were anything to you in the world, you would occa- 
sionally wear something I had given you.” 

It has been a sore point with him. To do him justice, he is one of 
the most generous men alive, and this his allusion to the gifts he has 
bestowed, nay, rather, heaped upon her, must not be taken in a wrong 
sense. The sense with him indeed, at this moment, is one of injustice. 
If she has accepted him, why will she not acknowledge her bondage? 

He lifts her hand, looks at it, and drops it again. 

“You will not even wear your engagement ring,” says he. “The 
commonest courtesies of society demand that, however distasteful to 
her” — he draws his breath sharply — “ a girl’s future husband may be, 
still, she wears his ring.” 

“ I am not in society,” says Terry, softly, feverishly. She gives a 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


549 


little glance round her, as if hoping that the heavens above will be kind 
and send her a protection, — in other words, a chance of escape from this 
most embarrassing conversation. 

“ As for the ring, it is lovely,” she says, hurriedly. “ I’m quite 
sure I told you how lovely I think it. But I am not accustomed to 
rings, and — it is heavy !” 

“ Heavy !” His face has hardened. “ It weighs on you ? Per- 
haps your engagement weighs on you too !” 

“ You mean ” says she, quickly, so quickly that he dares not go 

on. Dares not ? He wonders at himself ; but if he should go on, 
what would she say next? And could he dare that? He despises 
himself utterly, as he makes his next remark. 

“ Let me get you a lighter one, then,” he says. 

And, as usual, weakness is its own reward. Terry makes an im- 
patient movement. 

“ Why should I wear rings at all ?” says she. “ I don’t want them. 
They don’t suit me, nor my dresses, nor the boys, nor anything else 
belonging to me. We are so poor, the boys and I.” 

" You will not always be poor,” says Trefusis, steadily. “ When 
you are my wife you shall have as much money as I have. You shall,” 
he goes on slowly, steadily, “ have all that I have.” 

“ Oh, money !” says the girl, with extraordinary contempt, seeing 
that all her life she has been bereft of it. “ I hate money !” 

Trefusis turns and takes a step backward and forward. What does 
she mean now ? What does it all mean ? Had she made a mistake 
when she said her heart was free ? Even now he cannot believe that 
she has wilfully lied to him. 

She could not lie ! But she might mistake ; and if so He 

comes back to her. 

“ You did not always speak like this,” says he, quietly, but in an 
icy tone. He had always told himself he would not coerce her in any 
way. “ When first I asked you to marry me, you ” 

“ Ah !” Terry breaks in with a slight but eloquent gesture. She 
looks at him as if he had struck her. “ You remember that, what I 
said to you that day ? You will remember it always ! Always !” She 
stops as if thinking. “ Even after we are married,” says she, in a tone 
so low as to be almost unheard, “you will remember it!” 

Trefusis stands silent. Those words, “ after we are married,” are 
still ringing in his ears. They are like fire running through his veins. 
She still thinks, then, of that “sweet consummation” as possible? 
Why, here is hope still, in spite of all evil prognostications ! 

“Don’t misjudge me more than you can help,” says he. 

“ I don’t misjudge you at all,” is the careless answer. “ I under- 
stand you perfectly. You are very good to me, very kind, very” — 
with a pause — “ generous. But” — she quite startles him by the way 
she flashes round upon him now, her eyes brilliant, her color deepening 
— “ what puzzles me is, why you want to marry me !” 

For a moment Trefusis worries his brain for an answer. The real 
answer seems so inadequate. Yet, after a prolonged examination of 
his powers of reply, he comes back to it. 


550 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Because I love you,” he says, simply. There is nothing lover- 
like, however, in his tone. He has answered truly, honestly, but with 
a distinct sense of injustice. 

Terry frowns. She makes a little impatient gesture that has dis- 
belief in it. 

“ Queer. This is the first time you have said so,” says she, with 
a little elevation of her shoulders that means many things. 

She turns from him, and, leaning on the gate, with her back de- 
liberately turned to him, stands tapping her foot impatiently against 
the ground. Why doesn’t he go and pay his visit to the rector? Her 
act is distinctly discourteous. 

Trefusis, left thus in the background, savage at heart, yet filled with 
some strange hope, goes quickly to her, catches her, turns her round 
with a swift force, and kisses her ! 

She shakes herself free, draws back, and looks at him with parted 
lips and flaming eyes. His caresses hitherto have been so few and far 
between, so expected, so touched with the coldness of routine, that this 
strange impetuous kiss has shaken her. 

She makes a little inarticulate .gesture, as if to push him from her. 

“ Go ! go !” says she, with a faint violence. “ I can’t bear it !” 

u As you will !” He leaves her at once. 

His face is hidden from her by the crimson fuchsias that he passes 
on his rapid way, yet she has a faint remembrance of it as white, — 
whiter than it ought to be. 


CHAPTER X. 

But wide as pathless was the space 
That lay our lives between, 

And dangerous as the foaming race 
Of ocean-surges green. 

“ Oh, Terry, how lovely you look !” says Mrs. Adare, coming into 
the room she has assigned Terry for to-night, the night of her ball. 

“Do I?” Terry asks, naively, advancing towards her cousin, and 
looking at her with anxious eyes. “ Lovely is such a big word. But 
do I look presentable, — nice, — like other girls, I mean ?” 

“ Not a bit !” says Fanny. “ You look a thousand times nicer than 
any girl I’ve ever seen. I only hope to goodness my girls” (alluding 
to two little tots in the nursery) “ when they grow up will look just 
like you. There ! Can flattery farther go? What a blessing I made 
you accept this dress from our old relative ! Really, I hardly knew 
how delicious you could look until to-night ! Poor Gerrard ! Are you 
going to show yourself to him like this without a word of warning? 
It might be fatal. I think he ought to be prepared.” 

“You needn’t be uneasy,” says Terry, making a contemptuous 
little moue. “ He is not so easily upset as you seem to think. He will 
stick his glass in his eye, regard me critically for a moment, and say, 
‘ White becomes you !’ That will be all.” 

“ I think you are a little unfair to him,” says Fanny. She studies 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


551 


the girl with some anxiety. “ What is his fault ?” she asks. “Is he 
not kind, thoughtful ? Was there ever a more attentive lover? Does 
he ever find fault with you ?” 

“ He does nothing but find fault with me. He” — with a sudden 
burst of anger long restrained — “ he disapproves of me.” 

“ Nonsense, Terry ! What has he said to you, to make you come 
to such an extraordinary conclusion?” 

“ Nothing. Nothing at all,” indignantly. “ That is the worst of 
it. If he would say something, I could forgive him. But he only 
thinks, and thinks, and looks, and looks. I,” passionately, “can’t 
bear it. If he would only once get really mad with me, — say some- 
thing dreadful, — swear at me, — I could like him better. I could at 
all events,” gloomily, “ understand him.” 

“ My dear Terry ” 

“ But he won't,” says Terry, with dreary conviction. “ I'm sure 
he thinks it isn't a respectable thing for a man to say ” 

“ Cuss words ?” suggests Fanny, gravely. She is secretly convulsed 
with mirth. 

“ No,” frowning. “ Cross words, to a woman.” 

“ Perhaps experience has taught him that there is little to be gained 
by them, — that they bring in, as a rule, more kicks than ha'pence,” 
says Fanny, whose speech is a model of propriety in the drawing-room, 
but who can give herself away very considerably in her bedroom. 
“ And so all you have to object to in Gerrard is that he won't swear at 
you !” 

“ Oh ! If you can't be sober !" 

“ My dear girl, I haven't touched a drop of — tea since ” 

Terry abruptly leaves the room, angered the more by the sound 
of Fanny's suppressed laughter, that seems to echo down the corridor 
behind her. 

If Mrs. Adare had meant to advocate Trefusis's cause, she has cer- 
tainly failed. Her sense of humor has killed her design. 

It is with an ever-increasing anger against Trefusis — against the 
man she has promised to marry — that Terry runs down the stairs and 
straight to the library. 

On the threshold she pauses, standing behind the velvet portieres 
as if half afraid to draw them aside. 

Is any one down before her ? Suddenly she does draw the curtains, 
and, holding one in each hand, peeps in. Standing so, she makes a 
charming picture, — a picture all white, white silk and lace, and a grace 
most indescribable, a beauty rare, a sweetness and perfection not to be 
surpassed. So she stands looking in, her white gown framed on either 
side by the rich red of the velvet hangings. Her lovely face, lit by 
happy expectation, is brilliant, her whole air almost tremulous with 
delight. To the two gazing back at her she seems like the incarnation 
of youth and light and love. 

Thy cheek is o’ the rose’s hue. 

My only jo and dearie, 0 ; 

Thy neck is like the siller dew 
Upon the banks so briery, O ; 


552 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


Thy teeth are o’ the ivory ; 

Oh, sweet’s the twinkle o’ thine e’e ! 

Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

To the two looking back at her she is certainly their “ dearie O.” 
Seeing them, she makes a step forward, letting the curtains swing be- 
hind her. Larry is the first to move; Trefusis stands silent, his eyes 
fixed on her. He had not anticipated, perhaps, the Irishman’s impet- 
uosity ; and, besides, he would not have stirred if he could. He is 
content to gaze and gaze. It is as though he is looking at her for the 
first time : she seems to him a revelation, and indeed in a sense she is. 
He has seen her, up to this, only in dresses much the worse for wear, 

and now ! In her very shabbiest frock he had always thought her 

the prettiest girl he had ever met, but he had not known how beautiful 
she could be ! 

“ Oh, I say ! How awfully pretty you look !” says Larry, in his 
boyish way. He too is astonished at the change in her. He catches 
her hand and draws her into the centre of the room under the big 
chandelier, from which many wax candles cast their gleams upon her, 
as if in love with her. “ Is that the dress the Old Demon gave you ? 
If so, I forgive her a lot of her sins !” 

“ You like me ?” asks Terry, gayly. She is feeling a little excited, 
a little vain, perhaps, and decidedly a little angry. Trefusis has not 
said one word. 

“ Oh, you know I love you,” says Laurence, with a rather forced 
mirth. “ You will give me a dance, won’t you ? I ask in a hurry, as 
I see,” shaking his head with a mixture of despair and pride in her, 
“your card will be full five seconds after you enter the dancing-room.” 

“ A dance? Any dance !” says Terry, quickly, smiling charmingly 
at him. She has never glanoed at Trefusis since that first quick look 
she gave him on her entrance; and indeed, so far as she concerns her- 
self with him now, he might as well not be in the room, — perhaps 
better. “ Will you have the first waltz ?” 

“ The first ?” repeats Larrv, with a little stammer. “ But that,” 
with a rather uncomfortable glance at Trefusis, who is looking perfectly 
placid and unconcerned, “ is promised, of course.” 

“No, it isn’t,” shaking her charming head. “Strange as it may 
sound to you, not a soul has asked me for it.” It gives her a kind of 
wicked joy to say this in Trefusis’s hearing. For the last two days he 
had spoken to her now and again of Fanny’s coming dance, and in a 
way had given her to understand that this and that dance should be 
his. But he had not directly asked her for the first, and this had 
nettled her. He had made so sure. She was his property, it seemed, 
and she was to keep open her card for him. “ Won’t you have it?” 
she asks. She gives Larry a distinctly coquettish glance from under 
her long dark lashes. 

“ Thank you,” says O’ More, — a little gravely, however. 

Terry looks back over her soft round shoulders to admire the train 
behind her. 

“ So you like my dress ?” says she to Larry. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


553 

“ Oh, like it !” says that young man, ecstatically. “ It is perfect ; 
and so are you ” 

Terry turns her eyes slowly at last on Trefusis. His silence has 
irritated her into speech. 

“And you?” she asks. “What do you think of it?” There is 
defiance in her air. Trefusis regards her calmly for a moment or two, 
then lets his gaze travel over her gown in a slow, unhurried fashion. 

“ It suits you very well,” he says, indifferently. 

Terry turns away from him, bitterly affronted. She laughs, how- 
ever, as she turns. Such a cold answer, after all dear Larry’s loving 
admiration ! What a fool she must be, to fancy at times that he is in 
love with her ! 

She runs quickly to a long mirror, and stares at the charming re- 
flection therein, a reflection with a considerably heightened color and 
flashing eyes. This replica of her pretty self she regards with studied 
approval for a while. 

“ You are right,” says she, nodding her head gayly at herself. “ It 
does suit me. But, Larry, what about this sleeve? Isn’t the ribbon 
a little high, eh ? Come here and look.” 

Larry rushes to her. 

“ A little, perhaps,” says he. “ If there can be a fault anywhere, 
it is there. Shall I flatten it a bit ?” 

“ Yes, but take care.” 

“ Now,” patting the ribbon anxiously, though to Trefusis, looking 
imperturbably on, it seems that he is patting the pretty childish shoulder 
only, “will that do? There!” standing back to admire her afresh. 
“ You are, if possible, half an inch lovelier than you were a moment 
ago. But I assure you, Terry, you didn’t want that touch. You,” ten- 
derly, “ would take the shine out of the lot of them, even if you were 
dressed in that old black gown of yours. As it is, I tremble for the 
consequences. To-night will draw tears of blood from ” 

“ Nonsense !” interrupts Miss O’More, lightly. “ You rave ! Here, 
fasten my gloves. You seem to have nothing to do but talk nonsense; 
and these buttons will help you through your time.” She laughs mer- 
rily, and holds out to him her slender hand. 

“ After all,” says Laurence, critically, taking the hand she has held 
out, but gazing at her shoulder, “ I don’t think I like what I did to 
that ribbon. I think I’ll pull it up again. Just wait a moment ” 

Trefusis walks in a leisurely fashion to the door, opens it, goes out, 
and closes it almost silently behind him. There is no haste, no noise, 
no suspicion of anger. Laurence looks at her. 

“ He’s angry about that waltz,” says he, with a badly subdued and 
most unholy joy. “Terry, if ” 

“Oh, never mind him,” says Terry, petulantly. “Get my gloves 
fastened, can’t you ?” 

At this moment one of the servants enters the room, and brings to 
Terry a very exquisite bouquet. It is all white, and suggests Covent 
Garden at once. It had arrived a little late by the nine-o’clock train. 

“ For you, Miss O’More, with Mr. Trefusis’s compliments,” says 

the man. 


554 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


A pang of remorse troubles Terry’s breast. She takes the flowers 
and looks at them. He must have expected them, told his man to 
unpack them the instant they came, and have almost met him with 
them as he left the room just now. After all, she had behaved very 
queerly to him, very coldly, at all events; and he has been good to 
her and the boys, especially to the boys. It has been a little grievance 
with her of late that the boys have so gone over to his side. But what 
would not boys do, she tells herself, for cricket-bats, and tennis-rackets, 
and penknives, and unlimited pocket-money ? But in this she wrongs 
boyhood generally, for what boy of decent sort can be bought over by 
the gems of Golconda? Certainly the O’More boys could not. As a 
fact, they like Trefusis for himself. 

Yes, he has been kind to the boys. She ought to like him for that 
alone. 

Whilst thus struggling with her better nature, Miss Anson enters 
the room. 


CHAPTER XI. 

/ 

Dark is the blue of her soft-rolling e’e. 

Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses. 

Where could my wee thing wander frae me ? 

“ Are we the first down ?” she says. “ How delightful ! I like 
being punctual ; it says so much for one.” She is looking larger than 
ever, in a very handsome dress of amber tulle over amber satin. Her 
fine broad shoulders shine out of it. Her nose is magnificent. She 
looks as if she ought to have a laurel wreath upon her brow. 

“ What delicious flowers !” says she, dipping the Roman nose into 
them, and coming out apparently much refreshed. “ From” — with a 
massive smile at Larry — “Mr. O’More?” 

“No. From Mr. Trefusis,” returns Terry, shortly. 

“ Ah ! How perfect ! And how they match your gown ! I quite 
thought they had been Mr. O’More’s gift. Mr. Trefusis does not seem 
to me — I don’t know how you regard him, — but — well, hardly an 
idealist, you know. Sort of man who would like everything to go on 
velvet; a perfectly appointed house, for example, a correct manage, 
faultless servants, a — well, a pretty wife, you know, to sit at the head 
of the table— just to sit at the head of his table. You know the sort 
of man, don’t you ?” 

“ No, I don’t,” says Terry, quietly. 

“ But you must, you really must !” says Miss Anson, growing quite 
elephantinely playful ; “ because you know Mr. Trefusis. As I say, 
he is not an idealist, he is not romantic. Now, you, Mr. O’More,” 
turning her handsome face to him, “you look romantic. You look 
capable of anything.” 

“ Thank you,” says Larry, laughing. He has hardly followed Miss 
Anson’s argument. “ Is that a compliment, or — the other thing ?” 

“ Not the other thing, certainly. Well,” smiling blandly, “aren’t 
you going to ask me for a dance ?” 

“ Am I not 1” says Larry, effusively. He likes her in a way, and 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 555 

besides, like most people inclined towards embonpoint , she dances very 
lightly. “ May I have the second waltz ?” 

“ The second ? How ungallant !” says Miss Anson, who is now 
touching up her fringe before a mirror. “ Why not the first ?” 

“ That is my cousin's,” says Larry. 

“ Your cousin's !” Miss Anson stays the fluffing up of her fringe 
to stare at him, as one who disbelieves her ears. — “ But surely,'' ad- 
dressing Terry direct, “you have given the first to Mr. Trefusis, of 
course. I have heard a word or two here and there about you and 
him.'' 

“ Still, I have given the first waltz to Laurence,'' replies Terry, 
coldly ; then a sense of honesty compels her to add, “ Gerrard did not 
ask me for it.” 

“ Ah !” says Miss Anson. A sudden last hope springs to life within 
her breast. 

It is past midnight, and by this time most programmes are full. 
There has been very little heart-burning to-night even among the no- 
torious wall-flowers of the neighborhood, for Fanny has seen well to 
her men. She has not only filled her own house for the occasion, but 
has induced her neighbors to fill theirs also, and has secured two regi- 
ments, or at least as much of two regiments as are stationed in the bar- 
racks in the next town. 

Past midnight, and as yet Terry has not once danced with Trefusis. 
Not once has Trefusis asked her to dance with him. He has been de- 
lightful each time they have met in dancing-room or hall or corridors, 
in any of the innumerable little sitting-out places that the considerate 
Fanny has arranged for her guests to flirt in, and he has been most 
anxious to know if she had had some supper, but he has not asked her 
to go in to supper with him. This fact has been commented upon a 
little by some of the guests, Terry's lucky engagement to a rich Eng- 
lishman having been discussed right and left over every afternoon tea- 
table in the county twenty- four hours after it was made public. It has 
also been remarked how very often she has danced with her cousin, 
Laurence O'More ; she has also danced with Mr. Kitts, a most friv- 
olous person, and that young man in the Lancers, and the Poet, all 
three of whom are staying at the Hall ; but nobody takes any notice 
of them. Speculation, however, is high about Larry. Used there not 
to be old passages between her and her cousin? Surely Mr. Trefusis 
had better look to it. But, after all, who knows ? — a fashionable man 
like that, and a little country-girl like Terry ! No doubt he has tired 
of his bargain, etc., etc. 

Miss Anson has said a few of these little things during the even- 
ing whenever opportunity was given her. Indeed, she has not been 
beyond making her opportunities. 

“ How handsome those O’Mores are !” says old Lady Mackenzie, 
the “ grand old woman” of the immediate neighborhood, who might 
indeed have been called the “ grand old man,” so healthy is the mous- 
tache that adorns her upper lip. She peers across the room as she 
speaks, through her gold-rimmed glasses, to where Terry is standing 


556 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


with Laurence. “ She ought to have married her cousin, you know, my 
dear general, she ought indeed. And I dare say she will, too, judging 
by what I see to-night. Really, though, poor as they both assuredly 
are, it seems a pity to spoil ” She stops abruptly, becoming con- 

scious that Trefusis is beside her, having just paused in his waltz with 
Miss Anson. “Oh, you there, Mr. Trefusis?” says she. “Well,” 
frankly, and getting out of her awkward corner with supreme aplomb , 
“I should not have said that, perhaps; I certainly should not, if” — 
with a twinkle in her small old eyes — “ I had known you were so near 
me ; but you must confess Laurence O’More is uncommonly good to 
look at.” 

“ I think he is one of the handsomest men I ever met in my life,” 
says Trefusis, smiling delightfully at her. 

“ Ah ! that is generous,” says the old lady. She gives him this 
stab because she thinks he deserves it. In her time a lover was a 
lover, and to be outrageously jealous on the smallest provocation was 
the fashion. What does he mean by his smile, and his acquiescence 
about Larry’s beauty ? What does the creature mean ? “ I’d advise 

you to look to your guns, however,” says she, tartly. “ Terry is a 
little coquette. All Irish girls are flirts. You shouldn’t make too 
sure ; you should keep your eye on her.” 

“ The difficulty is to keep one’s eyes off her,” says Trefusis, un- 
moved, and smiling always. 

“ Ah, but there are too many eyes upon her,” says old Lady Mac- 
kenzie, exasperated by his coolness. 

“ That is what I think. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t,” 
says Trefusis, lightly. “ You might keep yours off, you know.” 

He passes his arm around Miss Anson’s waist, and again disappears 
among the dancers. 

Miss Anson is at her best to-night. The amber gown suits her to 
perfection. It tones her, and makes the whiteness of her regal shoul- 
ders even whiter. She looks, however, a little bigger than usual, — a 
fault, perhaps, but then they say you can’t have too much of a good 
thing. Her arms, if large, are splendidly modelled, and her feet, be- 
neath her amber petticoat, look like anything but little mice as they 
peer in and out : they are indeed substantial members, and worthy of 
the fine frame they were made to uphold. The Poet has been struck 
with her. 

Mr. Evingley — or “ The Poet,” as his friends affectionately (or other- 
wise) call him — is a young gentleman with a long nose and no chin. He 
has also three hairs on his upper lip, that must be the toughest hairs 
on record, as, though he never ceases tugging at them, they never 
yield to the attack. He had once sent a poem to a leading magazine; 
the editor in a misguided moment had accepted it, and in due course 
published it on the last page. On the strength of this, Mr. Evingley 
has ever since posed “as a writer of sweet verse” (this is his own ex- 
pression) ; and now that Lord Tennyson has left us disconsolate, he has 
hopes of the Laureateship. 

He is at this moment falling against a wall, in the latest known 
fashion, gazing at Miss Anson with lack-lustre eyes, when Mr. Kitts 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


557 


comes up to him; whereou he rouses himself sufficiently, though 
very sadly, “ to speak dull prose” (his own again) about the stars out- 
side, which to-night indeed are resplendent. 

Now, Mr. Kitts is a Philistine, pure, but not simple. He is a 
young man of about — well, his mother alone knows his age, and she is 
dead ; but one might say that he was twenty-one. This you might say 
to-day, but to-morrow you would be sure to say he was thirty, and the 
next day you would hark back again, and say you knew he was only 
twenty-five; at all events, only one thing is sure, and that is that no 
one has ever called him forty. He is a young man who, if not pos- 
sessed of extreme charms outwardly, is certainly filled to the brim with 
an unquenchable flow of animal spirits and small talk, that would have 
made his fortune in other times. As a cheap jack, for example, he 
would have been invaluable, and would doubtless have died a million- 
aire. 

Then he will talk : “ Good gods ! how he will talk !” Easier to 
stop the current of the Shannon than that of Mr. Kitts’s conversation 
once he has started. 

The Poet has been maundering on about the stars for so considera- 
ble a time that Mr. Kitts at last grows angry. 

“ I confess,” says he, “ I like the stars that are earth-born better. 
My dear fellow, you should encourage home manufacture. It’s your 
duty, and, disagreeable as it may be to you ” 

“ Duty belongs even to the gods,” says Mr. Evingley, solemnly ; 
“ then why not to us poor worms?” 

“ Well, now, I like you to take it like that,” says Mr. Kitts, re- 
garding him with immense admiration. “It sounds so modest — and 
from you ! Worms ! That’s a good word ! Worms ! Wrigglers ! 
‘ Then why not to us poor wrigglers !’ It is immense ! Even you ! 
Do you wriggle ?” 

“Ah! what a question! That is the fault of the uninitiated,” 
says the Poet, who certainly is beginning to wriggle a good deal : 
“ they are so material. No soul! Now, if you had a soul ” 

“ I shouldn’t wriggle. Well, I always understood I had one some- 
where, but if you tell me I haven’t” — cheerfully — “ I’m quite pre- 
pared to believe you. In the mean time, let us come back for a 
moment to mundane matters, if” — politely — “you can spare the time. 
We were talking, if you can remember, of the minor constellations — the 
earth-stars — the glow- worms shall we call them ? Can I so far ven- 
ture ?” 

“Ah, not bad, not bad; really sweet little simile,” says the Poet, 
with a piteous smile. “ Glow-worms ! There is certainly one glow- 
worm in this room to-night, who ” 

“ You’ve noticed her ?” says Mr. Kitts, changing his manner in a 
sudden and beginning to hunt the room with his eyes for Terry. 

“ Ah, yes. I have been feasting on her,” says the Poet, sadly. His 
eyes are devouring the room for Miss A nson. 

“ Well, as to that,” says Kitts, who has at last seen Terry, “ I 
don’t think she’d make much of a meal, but I’m sure I never saw her 
look so well.” 


558 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Sweet ! very sweet !” cooes the Poet, ecstatically. “ A mere 
breath, as it were, but so satisfying / 7 

“ A veritable souffle /” cries Kitts, enthusiastically, who is beginning 
to enjoy himself. “ I’m glad you agree with me about her. Evingley, 
do you think I too might be a poet ? I feel like one, when I look at 
her ! And in that dress, too 77 

“ Ah ! that amber dress ! That diaphanous vapor 77 

“ Great Scott ! 77 says Mr. Kitts, but to himself, “ the idiot has 
evidently been thinking of that big Anson girl all the time. So much 
for poets ! 77 

As a fact, the two girls, Geraldine Anson and Terry, have been 
standing at the end of the room with their partners while this conver- 
sation has been going on. 

“ Yes. Yes, I see , 77 says he aloud. 

“ She is special. So very, very special , 77 says Mr. Evingley, with 
something that sounds like a sob. “ Haven’t you noticed it ? 77 

“ The speciality ! I’m so dull, you know,” says Kitts, trying to 
look as if he wanted to cry. “ We miserable outsiders, what can we 
know of beauty ?” 

“ Ah, that is true, dear friend. But you should cultivate yourself ; 
you should lower yourself at the feet of a master, and learn from him. 
As for Miss Anson — I think we were dwelling upon her — how calm 
she is! Like a dream ! So beautiful ! ‘A dream within a dream ! 7 
You know the precious lines. Now, Miss Anson seems to me, when 
she moves, not so much to walk as to float — to sail 77 

“ Like a man-o’-war,” suggests Kitts, enthusiastically. 

The Poet frowns upon him. “ Like a cloud,” says he. 

u A storm-cloud, judging of her from afar,” says Mr. Kitts, who 
now has given way to wild if secret mirth. 

And indeed Miss Anson’s face at this moment is not descriptive of 
the cloud at even, the calm cloud, as we are accustomed to see it. It 
is now cold and angry. Even the most impartial observer might have 
called it ill-tempered. As a fact, she has just been asking Trefusis 
why Terry had not given him that first waltz. And Trefusis’s answer 
has angered her. 

He had laughed. Didn’t she know that it was bad form for en- 
gaged people to dance together? No? Why, it is considered in 
decent circles only a little worse than married people dancing together. 
Still, if Miss Anson clings to old-fashioned ideas, she need not be 
altogether unhappy, because he hopes — he is not sure, but he hopes 
to induce Miss O’More to give the go-by to both their prejudices 
(heavy emphasis on the both), and to let him have one waltz before 
the night is finished. 

No wonder Miss Anson’s fair handsome face looks like a storm- 
cloud. 

Yet the storm in Miss Anson’s face is nothing to the storm in Tre- 
fusis’s heart, as presently, his dance with the latter coming to an end, 
he goes up to Terry, who has just finished her dance with Laurence. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


559 


CHAPTER XII. 

u Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried my uncle Toby, “ but nothing to 
this.” 


“ May I have this dance ?” he asks. His face is a study. Terry 
starts and changes color. Laurence had gone off a moment before to 
fulfil his engagement with a most uninteresting old girl belonging to 
the Gabbett tribe, so that she feels herself without so much as one spear 
to her back. It is, unfortunately, one of the supper dances, and im- 
possible to refuse. Something in his manner tells her that he knows 
she is not engaged for it. 

“ Certainly,” she replies, slowly, coldly. 

' “ That is very good of you,” says he, in a rather untranslatable 

tone. To Terry it sounds too suave. 

It is the first time she has ever danced with him, and half-way 
round she is obliged to confess to herself that his dancing is beyond re- 
proach. He is, indeed, the best partner she has ever had. “ He is a 
piece of perfection,” she tells herself, with a disgusted but inward shrug. 
“ He does everything excellently well. How I hate perfection !” Her 
own dancing is a thing of beauty, — a fact Trefusis acknowledges with 
far greater generosity than she had accorded to him. In spite of the fact 
that he would not ask her, he had been longing to dance with her all 
the night, and now as he holds her in his arms (it is very seldom during 
his engagement that he has ever held her so) he wishes devoutly he 
had forgiven her wilful ill-treatment of him earlier in the evening. 

How exquisite she is ! How perfectly her graceful form keeps 
time with the music ! She seems to sway to it, as a slender stalk to a 
breeze. 

When you do dance, I wish you 
A wave of the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that. 

She puts an end to the waltz herself. 

“ I am tired,” says she, in a courteous but unfriendly tone. 

“ A sudden fatigue,” says Trefusis, with, however, unfailing calm. 
“ I am afraid what you really mean is that you do not like dancing 
with me.” 

“ I am sorry you should look at it in that light,” says she, with an 
indifference that belies her words. 

“ Will you come and sit down ?” he asks. 

But this is the last thing Terry desires, — a tete-d-ttte with him. 
She is sufficiently conscience-stricken to know that she has been in fault 
all through, and to sit out five, perhaps ten, minutes with him alone 

“Oh, no!” says she, hurriedly. 

“ Not even when you are so tired ?” There is surprise in his voice ; 
polite surprise, no more. There is, however, a rather mocking smile 
within his eyes, that enrages Terry. 

“You are right. It will rest me to sit down for a few minutes,” 
she says. She turns abruptly, and, taking the initiative (as if action 
of some sort is necessary to her in her present mood), leads the way 


560 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


into an adjoining apartment, a small room fantastically draped in red 
and yellow and with one low lamp burning on a table in the distant 
corner. Here she flings herself upon a lounge, and, opening her fan, 
studies the rose-buds on it, as if seeing them for the first time. Suddenly 
remembering it is one of his gifts, she closes it again with a click. 

“ Well,” says Trefusis, slowly, “ what is my crime?” 

“ Your crime?” 

“ Why would you not dance with me to-night?” 

“ What a question from you !” says she, flushing crimson, — “ you, 
who never asked me until it was almost time for every one to go home.” 

“ How could I ask you before ? I felt quite afraid to do it.” There 
is again that mocking light within his eyes, and she draws her breath 
sharply. “ After your reception of me early in the evening ” 

“Your reception of me, you mean. Your manner when I asked 
you how my dress looked, — you can’t have forgotten that. It,” pas- 
sionately, “ was studied — meant ! Meant to humiliate me before ” 

She hesitates. 

“ Before your cousin ! Pray do not refrain from mentioning him on 
my account. As to humiliating you, that is an absurd argument, as it 
is quite out of my power to do so. And,” a little haughtily, “ if I had 
it, I should not exercise that power where any woman was concerned. 
For the rest, your cousin had been so eloquent in his admiration of you 
that he left me literally without an adjective to go upon ; and, besides, 
when he was there to praise you, what would be the use of my pseans ?” 

“ Every one can talk,” says Terry, rising tumultuously to her feet. 
“ It is the easiest thing in the world. But nothing can alter a fact. 
You were very rude to me before Larry, and you know it.” 

“ You seem to bring Larry a good deal into the question,” he says, 
coldly. “ Perhaps you would like to bring him into it a little more, — 
altogether?” His lips now have taken a very fine smile. His manner 
is undoubtedly abominable. 

“You mean ?” says the girl, regarding him earnestly. 

“ Whatever you wish,” icily. 

“ No, no. Let us have it in words. You are annoyed about some- 
thing. Though you smile, and try to show nothing,” she cries, im- 
petuously, “ I can see that you are angry. What is it?” 

“ If you compel me to speak,” says Trefusis, “ perhaps — it is very 
unreasonable of me, of course — but perhaps I do object to my future 
wife dancing all night with another man.” His lips have grown a 
little white. 

“All night — with Larry?” She turns upon him indignantly, but 
she has betrayed herself for all that. He had not given a name to the 
“ other man she has ! 

“ I see you quite understand,” says Trefusis, grimly. “ And, now 
that we are upon the subject, I think I had better say at once that if 
‘ Larry’ — I think it is ‘ Larry’ you call him — is so indispensable to 
your happiness, you had better consider, before marrying me, the fact 
that in all probability you will see him very little after your marriage. 
I know you are fond of facts, so I mention it.” 

“ I wonder you can’t say what you have to say without all this rig- 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


561 


marole,” says Miss O’More, who really ought to be given a medal for 
the “ come to the point” service. “ What you mean is that you want 
to break off our engagement. Well,” looking full at him, and looking 
like an angel of beauty as she does so, but of the destroying type cer- 
tainly, “ you need not wait : you can put an end to it as soon as you 
like. I shall not place an obstacle in your way.” 

Trefusis regards her steadily. 

“ You would be glad ?” asks he at last, — “ glad to be rid of me ?” 

“ Neither glad nor sorry,” says the girl, unflinchingly. 

“ Not glad ?” 

“ No.” She pauses. There is evidently a struggle going on within 
her. Trefusis tells himself that the worst will soon be ov5r. She is 
going to confess at last that her heart is not her own to give to him 
or any man, save one. He had been white before. He is a little 
whiter now. He has always believed her honest. And he was right : 
she proves it now. 

“ I told you,” says she, stammering painfully, “ I would marry you, 
because — because of the boys.” 

“ That is nothing ! Terry !” He goes to her, catches her hands, 
and holds them in a painful grip. “ Swear to me that you are not in 
love with your cousin !” 

“ With Larry? How do you mean?” she asks, nervously. “If 
you want me to say I am not fond of him ” 

“ That is beside it,” with fierce impatience. “ Do you love him ? 
do you want to marry him?” 

“ Marry him ! Oh, no !” says Terry, fervently. “ How could you 
think that? I,” with a heavy sigh, “don’t want to marry any one.” 

“And me least of all.” He flings her hands aside. 

“ Well, why should I like you ?” she cries, trembling. “ You, who 
are always so cold, so critical, so ” 

“ Hateful ! Don’t mince matters.” 

“ Yes, hateful, then — to me. You can be very charming to others, 
— to Miss Anson,” — she pauses, and a flood of hope drowns his misery 
for a moment, but it recedes again at her next words, “ and Fanny, 
and Miss Mainwaring, and all the rest of them. To me only you are 
unkind.” 

“ Unkind !” 

“Yes, awfully unkind. You find fault with me from morning till 
night. I — at home, at all events — I am supposed to have quite a good 
temper, but with you — look at me now !” spreading forth her hands 
angrily. “ I was never in such a bad temper in all my life before. 
And it is your fault ! I am never in a bad temper except when I am 
with you !” 

“ It gives us pleasing prospects for our future,” says Trefusis, with 
a somewhat ironical intonation. 

“ I told Aunt Bridget you wouldn’t like me in silk attire,” says 
Terry, breaking fresh ground with astonishing vivacity. “But she 
would deck me out like this, and — I can see you disapprove of me. 
Not that I care. Other people might, but I don’t. And, besides, 
every one doesn’t disapprove of me.” 

Vol. LIL— 36 


562 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“Your cousin, for example ?” suggests Trefusis, whose temper is 
now hardly his own. 

Terry gives him a withering glance and sweeps out of the room. 

In the corridor outside she meets Fanny, who immediately seizes 
upon her. 

“ You can’t go home to-morrow, Terry. Mr. Gabbett has just sent 
me word that the bazaar must be a week earlier than was first in- 
tended, and you know what a number of little odds and ends are still left 
to be finished. I’ve sent word to the boys to come up to afternoon tea 
to-morrow, and to bring you anything you may want, but you really 
cannot go. I shall ask some of the nearest people to give us a help 
with the dolls and things.” 

“ I can’t,” begins Terry. 

“ What nonsense! My dear girl, you must! Just consider how 
perilously near it is now, and I haven’t anything to speak of ready 
yet. There are twenty-four dolls in a state of actual destitution ; and 
you know how clever you are at dressing them. I’m going to get up 
a regular bee for to-morrow : one always feels a little flat after a dance, 
and it will do us good to work for the poor, — set us up again after our 
night’s frivolity, and make us feel quite saintly. Now that’s settled. 
The boys will be all right, I assure you,” says Fanny, not understand- 
ing the real cause of Terry’s hesitation. 

“ Very well : I’ll stay,” says Terry, slowly. 

“ By the way, how modest you and Gerrard are !” says Fanny, laugh- 
ing. u Such a model pair of lovers ! I was glad to see you gave him 
one dance, at all events. — Oh ! you !” turning to Mr. Kitts, who has 
come up, evidently in the last stage of exhaustion. “ Is that you ?” 

“ It’s what remains of me,” says Mr. Kitts, weakly. 

“ You have been ?” 

“ I have, indeed. I’ve been bleating all round the house after you. 
There’s a big woman in red velvet who says she won’t leave the house 
until she sees you. I do hope you haven’t been doing anything? — 
anything criminal, I mean. She looks awfully wild.” 

“ Oh, it’s that tiresome Mrs. Burke,” says Fanny, with some dis- 
gust. “ She always will insist on saying good-by. Such bad taste ! 
It makes all the others go at once, and some of the girls are so enjoy- 
ing themselves, poor things ! Come, take me to her ; perhaps I can 
smuggle her out by the armory door.” 

Meantime, Terry has escaped. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The doubt of those we love, and, more, 
The rayless dull despair 
When trusted hearts are worthless found, 
And all our dreams are air, but air. 


The house is quiet enough now. Some of the men have gone to 
the smoking-room, and all the women have gone to their beds, or, at 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


563 


all events, are supposed to have gone there. Mrs. Adare, passing 
Terry’s room, glances in, and, seeing the girl no farther advanced to- 
wards rest than the shedding of her ball-gown, the getting into her 
dressing-gown, and the brushing out of her long and lovely hair, seats 
herself in the nearest chair and begins an exhaustive conversation about 
the events of the evening. 

“ Robbie won’t be up for another hour,” says she, alluding to her 
husband, who is in the smoking-room with his guests, poor man, 
though he would far rather be in bed ; “ and you can’t possibly finish 
your undressing under ten minutes : so I’ll sit here and talk to you.” 

And talk she does, as gayly and sleeplessly as when she was nine- 
teen, though now I suppose she must be thirty-four at all events. In 
the middle of quite an exciting episode that has the woman in red for 
its heroine, a gentle tap sounds at the door. 

“ Come in,” cries Terry, gayly, who under the charm of Fanny’s 
high spirits has entirely recovered her own ; and, the door opening, 
Miss Anson, still in full ball costume, stands revealed on the threshold. 

“ You, Geraldine, and not even undressed !” says Mrs. Adare, in 
great amazement. “ What have you been doing, you silly girl?” 

“ Looking for you,” says Miss Anson, frankly. “ The fact is, I 
couldn’t undress until I saw you. I — it is awful of me, I know,” 
giving way to rather shamed mirth, “ but I am dying of hunger.” 

“ Oh, do you know, so am I,” cries Terry. “ I didn’t eat a bit of 
supper ; and now I remember a pie that was at the side of the table, 
near the top : I wonder if it is all gone.” 

“ Little gourmande !” cries Fanny. “ There, run down, you two, 
as quickly as you can, and get something to eat. Time is flying, re- 
member, and there is very little of it left for your beauty sleep ; and 
all those people coming to-morrow, too ! If you hurry, I dare say the 
lights won’t be out in the supper-room yet, though I must say Patrick 
is unrivalled at putting out everything at a second’s notice. Take a 
candle with you, and light one of the lamps if you find he has been at 
it again. There, go !” 

She stops Terry, however, for a moment. 

“ Let me tie back your hair,” says she, catching up a pale-blue 
ribbon on the table. With this she draws the girl’s soft lovely locks 
into a loose binding behind her head, — such long locks, that fall far 
below her waist. Fanny, having tied the ribbon, turns her around. 

“ Oh, how absurd !” says she. “ You look like a baby, — a little 
thing of fifteen.” 

She accompanies them to the door and sees them safely down-stairs. 

“ There are a few men still in the smoking-room,” says she, “ vic- 
timizing Robbie, but if you go delicately, like Agag, they won’t hear 
you.” 

Thus she dismisses them with her blessing, but with hardly sound 
advice, however, as they have no sooner reached the lowest step than 
they see Larry coming across the hall. 

“ I don’t believe in visions,” says that young man, advancing, “ and 
I hope it isn’t D. T. But what are you doing here ?” 

He addresses himself to Terry. His eyes, indeed, are fastened on 


564 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


her in open admiration, an admiration that rather galls Miss Anson, 
who fancies herself a good deal. And, considering that she is in her 
full war-paint still, and Terry in only a little, simple, white dimity 
gown (loosely made, and without a vestige of lace about it), one should 
not take her to task too much for her disgust. 

But then Terry is so much prettier in the white dimity, with only 
her face and her youth and her sweetness. 

Miss Anson, seeing him, makes a little gesture as if to go back. 
She catches Terry’s sleeve. Terry looks at her as if wondering. 

“ It is so late,” says Miss Anson, in a would-be whisper. 

“ It isn’t a bit later than it was a minute ago,” says Terry, making a 
most extraordinary calculation, it must be confessed, “and I am still 
hungry. Larry, we want some supper. Come with us and light the 
lamps, will you ? Fanny says she’s afraid Patrick has put them all 
out, and I’m starving.” 

“ Yes, do come, Miss Anson,” says O’More. And Geraldine, find- 
ing her prudery is completely thrown away upon these two dense Irish 
people, and her appetite still most healthy, follows them to the supper- 
room. 

Fanny was right. Patrick has been true to his character. All is 
in darkness. When Larry, with much difficulty, and the burning of 
a handsome shade, has lit one lamp, both girls entreat him to let well 
alone, and get them something to eat. 

The pie is still in existence, and Terry is delighted with it. So is 
Miss Anson. But, finding after a while that Terry and O’More have 
more to say to each other than to her, she rises, gives them a gentle 
little inclination of the head, and leaves the room. 

“ Really it is disgraceful the way that girl flirts with poor dear 
Gerrard and makes love to her cousin.” This is her thought as she 
ascends the stairs to her room. If Gerrard could only see her now, 
sitting there in a mere glimmer of light, in a thin white dressing-gown, 
talking and laughing with that handsome cousin, he would be less 
than a man if he bore it. What a pity no one can tell him of it ! In 
all justice his eyes should be opened. If one could see him 

At this moment (she has reached the corridor above) she hears foot- 
steps approaching, and presently finds herself face to face with Trefusis. 

“ Has sleep no charms for you ?” he demands, pleasantly, stopping 
to say a word. Here is her opportunity. 

“ Yes, but hunger had even greater,” she returns, laughingly. It 
is a rather forced laugh. She is thinking of what she shall say next. 
“ Miss O’More and I went down about half an hour ago” (it was really 
only ten minutes ago) “ to the supper-room, to see what we could get.” 

“Yes? No supper taken at a proper time, I suppose? Well, I 
hope you got something.” 

“We got Mr. O’More,” says she, demurely. “He took us to the 
supper-room, and lit the — well — a lamp for us. He was so kind. He 
wouldn’t go away, even though we — I — begged him to do so. He 
insisted on getting us all sorts of beautiful things, — a pie in especial. 
He is very amusing, isn’t he ?” 

“Very!” What is there in her tone that has changed his from 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 565 

kind if indifferent attention to something that might almost be called 
anger ? “ And so you got your supper at last ?” 

“ Oh, I did ! Miss O’More is still finishing hers — with her cousin. 
You know he is so amusing.” 

“Yes,” says Trefusis. It is the same answer, in a sense. He 
bids her good-night again, and continues his way. Miss Anson, in 
the shelter of her door-way, watches him. Is he going to his room, 
or down-stairs ? 

Down-stairs, certainly. 

He turns the handle of the supper-room door with undue violence, 
and walks in. 

The room is enveloped in gloom on all sides (it is a big room), save 
where Terry and Laurence are sitting, about the middle of the table. 
Laurence, indeed, is sitting on the table, close — very close — to Terry, 
who is eating something off a plate with evident relish. 

It is lobster salad, as Trefusis sees to his disgust. First a galantine, 
a pie, was it ? — what was it that odious girl had told him ? — and then 
lobster salad ! No girl with a conscience would do such a thing as 
that. She must, indeed, be perfectly heartless to enjoy lobster salad at 
this hour of the morning, and after all that has passed between them. 
There lies the crux of the whole thing. After all that has passed ! 

For a moment they do not heed his entrance, and he has time to 
look at her ; to wonder whether the feeling he has for her is love or 
hatred ; to tell himself that he was mad when he decided on marrying 
this wilful, ill-tempered, beautiful Irish coquette, and then to swear to 
himself doggedly that nothing under heaven shall induce him to give 
her up, until she dismisses him. 

Here Larry looks up and sees him. 

“ More visions,” he cries, though perhaps not quite so heartily, so 
lightly, this time. “ Terry, here comes Trefusis.” 

Terry starts most unmistakably. “ Yes. You ?” says she, peering 
at him through the gloom. “ Do you want me?” 

“ No,” says Trefusis, coolly. He advances to the table, draws a 
chair to it, and seats himself leisurely. “ But I heard you and O’More 
were having some supper here, so I thought I should like to join you.” 

“ How good of you !” says Terry, with an audacious little sneer. 

Trefusis casts a quick glance at her. Amazement is in his heart. 
He had thought to bring down Nemesis upon her head by his sudden 
entry here; here, where she is supping secretly with her cousin, at an 
hour when all other members of the household are in bed, or, at all 
events, supposed to be there ; here, in this room, at an hour when the 
morning light is stealing in through every chink in the shutters, and 
without a light save that of one weakling of a lamp, that is evidently 
at its last breath for want of oil, and whose glimmer resembles nothing 
so much as the farthing rushlight we have all seen — in imagination. 

Yet she has the audacity to sneer at him, — to put him in the wrong, 
— to remind him by that sneer that she has not forgiven what he said 
to her at their late encounter. Yet what had that late quarrel been 
about? Surely about the man with whom she is now sitting at this 
untoward hour in happy conclave. 


566 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


“ What would you like?” she asks, with a chill but courteous air. 
“ This lobster salad is very good.” 

“ Not lobster salad, I think,” says Trefusis. “ Pray don’t worry 
yourself about me. I’ll look round.” 

“ Try the greengage tart,” says Larry, hospitably. Is there malice 
in the suggestion? Jealousy is green ! 

Trefusis makes a little gesture : “ My dear fellow, don’t let me 
disturb you.” He finds some ham somewhere, and sits down directly 
opposite Terry, and begins the supper he does not want in a most de- 
liberate manner. There is something heroic, indeed, in the way he gets 
through that ham, hating it all the time. 

Meantime, Larry, who suspects a scene later on, and who can always 
be depended upon at a pinch, is talking away with all his might. He 
has grown to the heights that are sometimes called brilliant, when sud- 
denly Trefusis stops him by addressing Terry : 

“ It must be so uncomfortable for you to be eating your supper in 
so bad a light. Shall I put a match to one of these other lamps? I’m 
sorry I didn’t think of it when first I came in. You must have been 
wretched, sitting in the dark like this.” 

“ It is not dark,” says Terry, calmly. “ And I like a dim light. 
Don’t light another lamp for me, please.” 

“ No? I beg your pardon, O’More. Pray go on : you were say- 
ing something about the Burkes’ party, I think.” 

“No. I was only talking about poor Mrs. Burke’s wig,” says 
Larry. “ It would fall to one side, you know. And when she tells 
you that she never lost a hair since she was seventeen, it comes in awk- 
ward. I say, Terry,” feeling that the strain is becoming unbearable, 
“ it’s getting late, isn’t it ?” 

No one could possibly accuse Larry of irony, but to Trefusis this 
remark sounds like it. 

“Well, if you think so, go to bed,” says his cousin, who is now 
trifling with a bunch of grapes. 

“ Is that a dismissal ?” says Larry, slipping off* the table to the 
ground. He grows rather red. Had this meeting here been arranged 
between her and Trefusis, and has he been in the way all this time ? 
For a moment his heart beats to suffocation, and then he knows. He 
is sure. Nevertheless he bids her good-night with some haste, nods to 
Trefusis, and leaves the room. 

“You needn’t hurry, Larry. I’m going too,” says Terry, rising 
from her chair, but he leaves them for all that. 

Terry looks straight at Trefusis now they are alone. She holds 
out to him a slim white hand. 

“ Good-night,” says she. 

He pushes back his chair and takes her hand, — holds it. In this 
faint light her eyes are gleaming. 

“ What does it all mean ?” says he. He is putting powerful con- 
trol upon himself. “ You swear to me one moment that you would 
not marry your cousin for any reason, for any bribe as it were, and yet 
now I find you here with him at this hour, and in such a confidential 
mood.” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 507 

“ Was it confidential ?” She lets her hand remain in his, but as 
though it were dead, lifeless, without a movement. 

“ It looked so. What were you saying to him ?” 

“ Even if I remembered, I certainly should not feel myself bound 
to tell you,” answers she, calmly. 

“No? Perhaps, if you did remember,” — the very suppression of 
all outward anger is making the anger within him a perfect storm of 
wrath, and is fatally destroying his judgment, — “you would not dare 
to tell. You were talking of me, perhaps, — accusing me to him ” 

Terry draws her hand out of his, with a sharp gesture. She steps 
back from him. 

“ Is that what you would do ?” she asks, with terrible contempt. 
“ With whom, then, do you talk of me and my many sins and misde- 
meanors ? I shall have to take heed to my ways, I see. Is that your 

honor? I ” she turns upon him with a little sob of passion in her 

throat, “ I tell you that is beyond me ! I have not got to the height 
of civilization that permits a girl to discuss the man she has promised 
to marry with any person on earth.” 

She turns abruptly to the door. He follows her, and lays his hand 
upon her arm. 

“ Terry,” says he, quickly, “ forgive me that. It was only a mo- 
mentary madness. I know you would not do it. But” — he has drawn 
her round so as to face him again, and is now gazing at her — “ why 
can’t we be friends ?” says he. 

“ Friends !” 

“Yes,” hurriedly, “friends. Friendship is a good thing to begin 
on. I know you do not love me. You,” with some irrepressible bit- 
terness, “ have given me to understand that too often for me to make 
a mistake about it. But friendship ” 

“ How friendly you were to me this evening !” says she, scornfully. 
“ How kind ! A friend should be kind, I think ; but you ” 

“ I am sorry for every word I said to you that offended you,” he 
replies, slowly, distinctly. In his secret soul he is wondering at him- 
self : he is apologizing to her, asking her pardon, for the sins of her 
own committing ! Truly he has fallen very low. 

It is a pity, perhaps, that he had not so abased himself somewhat 
earlier. The wilful but lovely head is now turned a little in his direc- 
tion ; two large eyes, soft with dewy tears, are looking into his. 

“ No, no !” It is a charming penitent who now looks up at him. 
“ I was wrong, — very wrong ! I should not have given Larry that 
first waltz, but” — her voice sinking into a shamed whisper — “ I think 
you might have said that I was looking — well, you know — nice /” 

“I could never say that,” says he. “That was not the word.” 
He draws her a little nearer, and she does not resist him. “ What word 
was there to describe you ? It is not coined.” 

Again she looks up at him. The unkillable Irish mirth in her 
declares itself in the little broken smile, that in the midst of all her 
agitation and grief lights up her eyes and lips. 

“ I think you might invent one,” says she, with a glance divinely 
shy. She holds back from him, but at last lets him press his lips to 


568 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


hers, giving him a dainty, unimpassioned little kiss for the warm one 
he gives her. 

Then she slips from his arms, and runs away up-stairs. Though she 
had been distinctly cold to him all through this last interview, perhaps 
never has he been so nearly en rapport with her as on this night, when 
he had entered the supper-room ready to slay her with his wrath. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

What is love ? ’tis not hereafter ; 

Present mirth hath present laughter, 

What’s to come is still unsure. 

“ I really think we shall get things properly in order after all, 
if we persevere for the next two days,” says Fanny, in a satisfactory 
tone, regarding her working party with a beaming eye. And indeed 
so she well may. Anything like the energy displayed by all present 
has seldom been seen before in a private drawing-room. 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t touch my elbow,” says Larry to Geoffrey 
O’More, who is leaning over his shoulder, watching his every move- 
ment with an excitement that borders on delirium. “ If you do, I’ll 
rend you limb from limb.” 

Larry is engaged on frame-making in the corner, and there are two 
or three little water-color sketches in the usual young-lady-like style 
that we all, alas ! know so well, lying beside him, waiting for their 
mountings. Larry is quite an expert at delicate carpentering, and has 
been pressed into the bazaar service to-day, though rather against his 
will. He has now, however, entered into the spirit of his task, and is 
tremendously busy. 

Miss Anson, not far from him, is bending over a table, enamelling, 
with really exquisite taste, some scallop-shells in pale blues and greens 
and crimsons, touched charmingly, here and there, by a little gilding. 

“ What are these for ?” asks Trefusis, stopping for a moment by her 
table to look down at them. 

“ For a dressing-table, to hold pins. Pretty, aren’t they?” 

“ Charming. But a bit wobbly, don’t you think ? The pins will 
be all sea-sick. Those shells will want to be propped up on every side 
to keep them steady. 

“ Will they ? It doesn’t matter. I shan’t have to prop them,” 
says Miss Anson, indifferently. 

The answer so exactly describes her mental attitude at all times, 
that Trefusis smiles a little, as he leaves her to take over some shreds 
of gold and silver tinsel for the beautifying of the dolls that Terry 
and Mrs. Adare are raising from a shameless state of nature to one of 
a high-class respectability. 

Somebody calling for Fanny at this moment, she leaves Terry and 
hurries across the room. 

“ I hope you feel rested,” says Trefusis, stopping beside Terry. He 
tries to catch her eye, but fails. It is the first time he has been able 
to speak to her since that last curious half-hour the night before, or, 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


569 


rather, early this morning. She had not appeared at breakfast, and 
indeed had come on the scene only when every one else was well settled 
down to his or her work, and had then glided to a seat next to Fanny 
and begun a diligent crusade against the dolls, who seem rather to 
resent being dressed. It seems impossible to make them stay this way 
or that way whilst their things are being “ fitted.” They wriggle, and 
wobble, and behave as frivolously as any living person of their own 
years, — which are tender. 

“ Yes, thank you,” says Terry, in a low tone. She leans a little 
away from him, and plunges her hands suddenly among the soft masses 
of the silks and satins he has brought her, as if in frantic anxiety to 
find something to make the toque for the doll now in hand. 

“ You look a little pale,” says he, lowering his own tone in turn. 
There is something distinctly confidential about him ; something lover- 
like. This attitude, so new, so unusual, seems to harass Terry. 

“ Oh, no,” says she, quickly. And now, indeed, she verifies her 
denial. She has flushed a painful crimson. She makes an impatient 
movement, and the poor doll she is holding, who has done nothing 
at all, slips from her lap to the ground and comes to a violent and 
hideous death. When they lift her up they find her nose is broken. 

“ There,” says Terry, with a rather nervous laugh, “ see what you 
have done. Artists should not be interfered with when at their work. 
You must go away now, and let me undo your guilty deed. Poor 
doll ! and she was looking so nice, too !” 

“ Must you take off all those things again ?” asks he, aghast. 

“ Yes, of course, and put them on another.” 

“ Don’t,” says he. “ Let her stay like that, and I’ll promise to 
buy her, nose and all, for any sum you like. It is the least I can do. 
It is a sort of reparation.” 

“Very well,” says Terry, laughing. “I’ll ticket her as ‘sold.’ 
Poor old thing,” eying the doll ruefully, “ I must try and patch her 
up a bit. The first thing I have sold to you, too ; and so little worth 
having.” 

“Oh, not the first thing, is it?” says Miss Anson, who has just 
come up. Her tone is innocence itself, her smile quite guileless, and 
yet something in her voice makes Terry’s heart almost stop beating for 
a moment. Her pretty color dies away. What is it she means ? 

“What was the first thing, then?” asks Trefusis, with an inter- 
ested air, looking at her, challenging her, as it were, but apparently 
without a trace of suspicion. 

Miss Anson laughs. “ Don’t you know ?” says she. — “ Don’t you 
know ?” This to Terry, who shakes her head faintly and feels as if 
she could not speak. “ No ? How dull you both are ! I know, and, 
in my opinion, it certainly is worth even less than this last purchase,” 
pointing to the disfigured doll. 

“ You fill me with curiosity,” says Trefusis. “ Pray let us into the 
secret ; I shall be in Miss O’More’s debt if you do not. What else 
have I bought from her, then ?” 

“Ah, I leave you to find that out,” says she, smiling her large, 
bland smile, and making a movement as if to go away, but Trefusis 


570 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


steps, as if by accident, before her. He has now his back to the room. 
She alone can see his face. 

“ No. You shall tell me now,” says he. His voice is a command. 
Miss Anson hesitates for a second, and then feels it will be dangerous 
to go any further. 

“ Have you forgotten last Thursday night, then,” says she, with a 
shrug of her fine shoulders, “ when we were looking over Mrs. Adare’s 
bits of bric-a-brac for her stall? — and that little swinging monkey, 
and Miss O’More’s asking you to buy it for luck, just to start her?” 

Of course they both remember now. It was such a trivial thing, 
and it happened so many nights ago, and meant so little. Terry’s color 
comes back in a delicate flood, but Trefusis’s gaze is still contemptuous 
as it rests on Miss Anson. 

“ Really, Miss O’More,” says that full-blown damsel as she moves 
away, “ I should take Mr. Trefusis to task if I were you. People in 
love should never know what it is to forget even a sigh of the one 
beloved.” 

With this last little dart, which falls very flat, she takes her buxom 
way to the other end of the room. 

“ Truly it would be better for some people if they had never been 
born !” says Trefusis, looking after her. 

“ I feel that often,” says Terry, slowly, painfully. 

“ Surely,” quickly, anxiously, “you haven’t taken to heart her 
miserable insinuations, — her ” 

“ No, no, no,” putting up her hand quickly. “ What I meant was,” 
with a heavy sigh and a sudden rush of tears that drenches her sweet 
eyes, “ that it would have been better for me if I had never been born.” 

“ Or if I had not,” he replies, bitterly, and leaves her. 

In the distance, near one of the windows, and standing before one 
of the biggest easels on record, is Mr. Kitts. He is painting away 
frantically at a little canvas that he has had the audacity to call “ A 
Sunset.” From the remotest corner of the room it looks like a scene 
of carnage, a battle-field of the good old times, when gore was the 
leading feature, and fire and smoke the rest. 

Taken close, it looks as if some one had been sitting on it. 

Every one is trying not to see this chef-d’ceuvre of Mr. Kitts’s; all 
are abstaining from so much as a glance in his direction. The most 
poignant anguish is stirring the souls of those who fear he will offer 
it to them as a priceless gift, to be placed upon their stalls. Who 
would raffle it ? And for how much ? Who would dare to walk 
about with it and offer tickets for it, at even a halfpenny a ticket ? 
The most flagrant impostor in the world of bazaars would not presume 
to foist Mr. Kitts’s masterpiece upon a wondering world. 

The Poet, Mr. Evingley, has kindly offered to read aloud to them 
some tender sonnet whilst they work. And his offer has been accepted. 
Nature, as he pathetically remarks, has incapacitated him for hard work 
of any kind, — meaning, presumably, that she has given him over-much 
brain ; but if he can be of use to them in other, lighter ways, he is 
entirely at their service. 

He had at first breathed, rather than spoken, a hint as to his will- 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


571 


ingness to delight them with some of his own deathless (but as yet 
unpublished) sweetmeats in the poetical line, but, this gracious insinua- 
tion not being received with the rapture it deserved, he had sadly fallen 
back upon a lower level. Philistines will be Philistines, to the end of 
the chapter. 

He has now one of Mr. Swinburne’s volumes in his snowy hands, 
— the “ Poems and Ballads,” — and is preparing to read some of the 
matchless verses therein contained. And, after a whispered entreaty 
from Mr. Kitts to be sure and put in the asterisks with a free hand, — 
an injunction which he treats with a fine contempt, — he stretches him- 
self with a languid grace in a lounging-chair and begins to read, — 

“ Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow !” 

At this moment Miss Anson says, hurriedly, — 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Evingley, but I think it better to 
speak before we have got too interested.” 

“ I told you, you know,” says Mr. Kitts, with a reproachful glance 
at the Poet : “ there’s things in that book that ” 

“ But I’ve got no more shells,” Miss Anson is saying. “ Do get 
me some, somebody, before Mr. Evingley begins again. I do so hate 
interrupting anybody.” 

“ It looks like it,” whispers Fanny to Terry. 

Mr. Evingley regards her with a look of gentle resignation. 

“ I’m so sorry,” says Miss Anson. “ Fanny, where are the shells?” 

“ Under the table ; at your feet ; in a basket,” explains Mrs. Adare, 
in soft jerks. “Now, Mr. Evingley! We are quite ready, I think.” 

“ Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow !” 

Here the door is burst violently open, and Mr. Adare darts in. 

“ Fanny, Fanny, where’s that small hammer of yours? Canty” 
(the village carpenter) “says he can’t get on without it; he’s putting 
up the art muslins round the stalls, and he says ” 

“ Oh, never mind what he says,” cries Fanny, rising impatiently. 
“ My goodness, Robbie, I think you might know by this time that I 
always keep my hammer in the cabinet.” 

“ I know by this time that you don’t,” says her husband, very 
naturally aggrieved at this reception. “ I’ve searched it exhaustively, 
and there isn’t a sign of it.” 

“ Well, if it isn’t there it’s in the pantry, or in the nursery, or 

Oh, stay, Robbie ; now I think of it, it’s under my bed. I wonder 
you couldn’t think of that.” 

“ I suppose that’s a compliment,” says Adare, who has a quiet 
humor of his own. “ You evidently think I have a mind above the 
average.” He disappears with a slight grin. 

“ Now, dear Mr. Evingley,” says Fanny, in her suavest tone : “ I 
do hope this is our last interruption.” 

“ Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,” 
begins Mr. Evingley, in his most mellifluous tones. 


572 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Miss O’More, ma’am/’ says the butler, throwing wide the door 
to admit Aunt Bridget. 

Mr. Evingley sinks back in his lounge ; the book drops from his 
lifeless fingers. It is too much ! It is much too much ! 

“Oh, hang it,” says Larry, whose acquaintance with poetry is 
limited, “ I do think that poor creature might be allowed to swallow 
it now, whatever it is. It must be sticking in her throat by this time.” 

General consternation ! What has Larry been thinking about the 
swallow ? 

The Poet casts a melancholy eye upon him. 

“ It is a bird,” says he. 

“ A whole bird ?” says Larry. “ Bless me ! I thought it was only 
a pill at the worst !” 

“ Laurence !” says Terry, wildly. 

The Poet regards him with a shuddering horror. As for the others, 
they, I regret to say, have altogether forgotten themselves, and are 
shaking with laughter. Even Miss Anson, who cannot be accused of 
having a lively sense of humor, is now bending beneath the table, 
under the pretence of finding new shells, but in reality to hide her face. 
And as for Mrs. Adare, she is hiding behind Terry’s back, which is 
rather mean of her, as Terry is certainly desirous of hiding behind 
hers. 

Mr. Kitts has fallen into his canvas. He has smudged it irre- 
deemably. This, however, as Mr. Toots would have said, “ is of no 
consequence.” It is, indeed, a most fortunate thing. It seems in some 
strange way to have altered the character of his work, to have enhanced 
its charms. It is now “ A Moonlight,” taken at a good distance, — say 
a mile and a half. 

“ Tea !” cries Fanny, joyfully ; “ here’s tea !” Her voice is a little 
choking still, as she emerges from behind Terry’s back and pushes 
Terry towards the tray that the butler has just brought in. She feels, 
indeed, as if she could have fallen upon the butler’s neck, for his kindly 
intervention at this critical moment. 

“ Terry, you will pour it out,” she says ; “ but not for a while yet. 
Tea can wait, but we cannot, until Mr. Evingley has read to us the 
poem of his selection. Dear Mr. Evingley, you will be good to us, 
won’t you, in spite of all these hateful interruptions?” 

This gracious entreaty, this tender tribute to his charm, restores 
Mr. Evingley to his usual sense of bien-&tre: he takes up his book 
again, and this time brings his little effort, as he calls it, to a successful 
finish. 

Then comes tea; they linger over it so long that Fanny at last cries 
to them, in the voice of the old Egyptian (though perhaps, after all, he 
was young : the young are the cruellest of all !), “ Ye are idle ! ye 
are idle !” Whereon they all fall upon their work again. 

“As for you, Gerrard,” says Fanny, passing by Trefusis, “you 
ought to be ashamed of yourself.” 

“Ashamed?” says Trefusis. It takes an Englishman some time 
to collect his wits. 

“ Yes, thoroughly,” says Fanny. “ What have you done all day ?” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 573 

"Oh, that!” says he. "Well, what can I do, after all? Fin but 
a poor fellow at a thing of this sort.” 

" You can sing,” says Fanny. " That poor idiot over there” — 
pointing by a shrug to Mr. Evingley, and being, indeed, most ungen- 
erous in her air towards him — " has done his little best ; the smallest” 
— sighing with doleful remembrance of Mr. Evingley’s performance — 
"of all small bests. But you !” with flattering concern, "you can sing, 
at all events. Now begin ; give us something to help us through our 
work. You can see,” with a rueful glance at her helpers, " that they 
are all straying into gossip of a most meretricious sort; but if you begin 
to sing they will grow silent again, and with silence the needle and 
thread will find their own ground again.” 

" If it is a matter of duty ” says he. 

" It is ; it is, I assure you. There !” pushing him towards the 
piano-stool, " sit down, and charm them into silence.” 

" A moment,” says Trefusis. He goes straight to where Terry is 
sitting, and bends down to her. 

" I sang to you once before,” says he. " I shall sing to you now 
again.” 

He is at the piano now, and has struck a chord or two. He has 
chosen some words of Lord Lytton’s : 

Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee 
I feel not rapture wholly, 

For aye the heart that's filled with love 
Runs o’er in melancholy. 

To streams that glide in noon, the shade 
From summer skies is given ; 

So if my breast reflects the cloud, 

'Tis but the cloud of heaven ! 

Thine image glassed within my soul 
So well the mirror keepeth 
That chide me not if with the light 
The shadow also sleepeth. 

To Terry, listening, the words are a reproach ! But so enamoured 
is she of the sweet music that the sense of the words goes by her. 
Had it been otherwise she might have been affronted by this song that 
he has chosen ; but his voice, — it charms her, it holds her as with 
an enchantment. 

When the last notes have sounded, he turns abruptly on the music- 
stool, and looks towards her. She is leaning forward, her face rapt, 
her eyes full of tears. Surely " music hath charms.” He thinks of 
that first night when he had sung to her, — that night in the old school- 
room in the village, — and a strange sense of power, that has rapture 
in it, thrills him with a wild new passion. Perhaps through his voice, 
through the power of music, he can win her. He takes a step towards 
her. As though noting his desire to come to her, she gets quickly up 
from her seat, whispers a word to Fanny, and, gliding past her, leaves 
the room. 

With a smothered exclamation, Trefusis picks up the music he has 
let fall in a somewhat awkward fashion to the floor. 


574 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Heaven in sunshine will requite the kind. 

The bazaar is held in the school-room in the village, an admirably- 
sized room, where some time before the magic-lantern had been on view. 
To-day, however, it is far more effective than on that last occasion, 
Fanny having taken it in hand. Fanny’s taste is undeniable and al- 
ways to be depended upon, and, as she is the good genius of the poor 
in this little parish, and is famed for her sweetness and goodness to 
them, she has thrown her whole heart into the making a success of this 
bazaar, that is to do wonders for her poor in the cold misery of the 
coming winter days. Each stall has been arranged with a fa9ade 
shaped like a huge arch, from which hang draperies of art muslins, 
each stall having a different color. 

The effect is charming. The soft and airy muslins are tied back 
here and there with fans, and bows of ribbon, and palm-leaves. In- 
side these delightful tents, all sorts of pretty, shining, delicate, and (it 
must be confessed) for the most part useless dainties are waiting on 
their shelves, crying, like the little pigs in the old story, “ Who’ll eat 
me? who’ll eat me?” 

The morning, for a wonder, is brilliant, Providence so often in its 
mysterious fashion opening the sluice-gates of heaven upon a day, like 
this, dedicated to the poor. There are more wet bazaar days in a year 
than there are wet garden-party days. And this is wonderful, because 
I suppose that for one bazaar there are at least, to put it very reason- 
ably, five hundred garden-parties. Yet the parties are for the rich, the 
bazaars for the poor. It is all so difficult to understand. 

To-day, at all events, is all it ought to be, and the attendance ex- 
cellent. Every one has come, even the “ dear duchess,” who has driven 
a matter of twenty miles to throw her little mite, as she affectionately 
expresses it, into dear Mrs. Adare’s bazaar treasury. 

“ Dear Mrs. Adare,” who knows her, smiles faintly. That “ little 
mite” ! How well she knows it, too ! 

The afternoon is “ wearin’ awa’,” like Jean’s old person, and still 
business is very brisk. Mrs. Adare being very popular, money is flow- 
ing gayly into the cash-boxes. 

The duchess, who told “dear Mrs. Adare” on her arrival “that 
she is famished, positively famished,” had to be sent up to the Hall 
under Mr. Adare’s care to get some luncheon there, though luncheon, 
and a very good one too, has been provided on the spot. But then it 
costs a shilling ! The duchess had insisted on lunch at the Hall. 

Now, much refreshed, the dear duchess has come back again, having 
escaped so far the importunities of the stall-holders and the wild 
maidens who wander around soliciting tickets for the night-dress-bags 
they are raffling. Now, indeed, her Grace precipitates herself upon 
the room. Freely she wanders here and there, her huge form swaying 
as she goes. Twice she has travelled round the school-room, appraising 
all things as she goes. Much more than twice she has refused to give 
a shilling to a raffle. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


575 


“ So naughty, you know, so naughty,” she has said, with elephantine 
playfulness, to Mr. Adare, who, poor man, has been told otf to lead 
her around, though, as he himself afterwards pathetically remarks, he 
was not born to be a bear-leader. “ Gambling, you know, so horrid. 
Wicked man, to allow it !” 

Anyway, she has walked round the room twice, which in a woman 
of eighteen stone or so is highly commendable. She has been specially 
affable to all she meets, calling everybody by their wrong names in the 
very kindliest and friendliest fashion. She has bought a sixpenny doll 
at every stall except one, — where dolls are not to be purchased. This 
stall had been extravagantly given up to library requirements of a 
severe nature. Here she bought a pen-wiper at fourpence, to show she 
felt no ill will, and that she would rather die than go away without 
buying all she could. 

Having got Mr. Adare to pay for this (she seems determined to 
pay for nothing but sixpenny dolls), and for her tea at the tea-stall 
later on, and made him promise to give her a pound towards her ragged 
school in the slums of London, she bids them all a hearty farewell, 
waving Mr. Adare an immense kiss from the top of the door-step, and 
a general wave to the others from the tips of her lips. Every one is 
naturally much impressed, much delighted. 

“ Disgraceful old hypocrite !” cries Miss Bridget, sinking into a 
chair and mopping her brows : she has been working manfully all day, 
and is honestly tired now. “ I like to hear her ! Coming here,” ad- 
dressing a little audience of the Hall party that has gathered round 
her, “ coming here,” she cries, with rising wrath, “ to spend tuppence 
ha’penny, and then going away as if she had set us up for life !” 

“ Don’t talk of us as if we were hens !” says Mr. Kitts, resentfully. 

“ Robert,” says Miss Bridget, catching hold of Adare’s coat as he 
is trying silently and skilfully to go by her, “ I saw you with her. 
You were with her all day. I hope you did not give in to her.” 

“ Give in to her?” Mr. Adare’s face shows such astonishment that 
the others all laugh. 

“ Yes,” says Miss Bridget, angrily. “ I mean what I say, in spite 
of these cackling idiots.” She emphasizes this delightful remark by a 
full look at Mr. Kitts, who instantly succumbs to it. “ Did you give in 
to her? Did you let her swindle you out of anything?” 

“ Oh, that !” says Adare, rather feebly. At this point his wife, who 
is present, takes him by the arms. 

“ Oh, Robbie, what an accusation ! Come, speak,” says she, put- 
ting on a tragic air, “ or all is at an end between us.” 

“ Robert, what have you promised that woman ?” demands Miss 
Bridget. 

“ I’m afraid, a pound or two,” says Adare. 

“ For what ?” 

“ Her ragged schools.” 

“ Weak, contemptibly weak !” Says Miss Bridget, while his wife 
lets his arms go, with an affected sigh of relief. “ You don’t catch me 
napping like that. She asked me for five pounds for her ragged 
brigade somewhere in the wilds of London (I don’t believe she knows 


576 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


anything about the wilds of London), and I just said, ‘ My dear woman, 
there is a ragged regiment here in this town, — your own town, — not 
supported by royalty, that it takes all the spare five shillingses I pos- 
sess to keep so much as even its breeches on it !’ ” 

“ Really, Aunt Bridget ! ” says Mrs. Adare. 

“ Well, my good girl, what do you want ?” says Miss Bridget, who 
is now greatly incensed. “ What’s the matter with the breeches? Am 
I to understand that you would rather have them without them ?” 

At this they turn and flee. 

Trefusis has bought up all the last things en masse that remain on 
Fanny’s stall, — Terry being behind it, — and has given them to the 
rector for the poor. It is quite a tremendous bundle, and, as it com- 
prises among other things a considerable quantity of painted tambou- 
rines, banjoes, bellows, perfumed sachets, and handkerchief-cases, the 
rector may be justly excused if he looks on the gift with blank amaze- 
ment. 

“But, Mr. Trefusis, have you thought?” says he. “It is more 
kind of you than I can say, but have you thought how useless these 
things are for our poor ? How can they hang up tambourines in their 
smoky cabins, and where are the gloves for the cases? You are kind, 
my dear fellow, — very kind ; but if they had only been shawls and 
petticoats !” 

“Give the tambourines to the babies,” says Trefusis, laughing. 
“ They may get five minutes’ fun out of them.” 

“ No, no. With your permission I’ll keep them all, and hand them 
over to a bazaar to be given next month in the parish close to this. It 
will be a great help. And your money, — that has been a help to us. 
We have that, Mr. Trefusis, and I thank you exceedingly for it. We 
shall have plenty of coal for the poor this winter, at all events.” 

“ But coals aren’t enough,” says Trefusis. 

“They are a great deal, however,” says Mr. Gabbett, patting his 
shoulder almost affectionately. This cold, silent young Englishman 
has grown dear in many ways to the good rector’s heart. 

Trefusis leaves him, walking thoughtfully away. “If they had 
been shawls and petticoats!” The rector’s words ring in his ears. 
And is he not Terry’s rector, and is this not Terry’s village ? If those 
tambourines are useless, as of course they are, — he gives himself a 
little shrug at his dulness, — surely there must be other things, on some 
other stalls, that will suit her villagers. 

He looks round him and goes straight to a stall on his left. Here 
some petticoats and shawls are still to be seen, and behind them a 
gaunt old maid, with a most unmistakable false front and a beaming 

eye. 

That old maid swears by him in all her short future. 

Everything still remaining on her stall — things serviceable, but, 
because of the lack of beauty in them, left there — he buys, without 
prejudice, without bargaining. The old maid’s heart grows light. She 
had for the past hour felt bitter fears that she should have to carry 
back these useful but hideous things, that to her had grown beautiful 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


577 


as day by day she toiled over them with knjtting-pins and needles. 
And now this tall young man, with his courteous kindly air, has bought 
them all, — all ! Not a tiling remains, and she will be able to give in 
her account to Mrs. Adare as one of the very best at this bazaar. Oh, 
the joy of it ! 

Tears rise in the poor old maid’s eyes, as one by one her homely 
but useful articles are laid side by side as Trefusis’s purchases. Her 
stall had been somewhat neglected during the day, not being as artistic 
as those of the others. But now — she looks across at Mrs. Brennan’s 
stall, Mrs. Brennan, whose wares have been held up to admiration all 
the livelong day, and — we are all wicked, even the best of us — feels a 
glow of triumph as she sees that some of the exquisitely embroidered 
cushions are still left unsold, whilst her modest comforters and petti- 
coats have been all pulled down and sold. The opposite stall is still 
bright and pretty with its wares. Hers is empty and a wreck. Oh, 
the delight in having it a wreck ! 

It is perhaps unnecessary to say that there has been bad work 
recently between the old maid and Mrs. Brennan of the embroidered 
cushions. 

Anyway, every shawl and muffler is now lying on the old maid’s 
counter, and Mr. Trefusis is paying for them. Not a wrapper or a 
child’s frock is to be seen. All lie in a huge, soft erection before him. 

“ In fact, me dear,” said the old lady afterwards, with tears in her 
eyes, and without a thought of impropriety, “ when he went away he 
left me naked !” 

Trefusis hires a little boy to carry them all to the rector. 

“ You are a good fellow, Trefusis,” says the rector, as he meets him 
later on, alluding to those welcome goods. “ You deserve good in turn. 
I pray God you may meet with it.” 

Somehow Trefusis knows that the rector is wishing him well with 
-regard to Terry. 

* ******* 

And now it is all over. Larry and Mr. Kitts, while things are 
being wound up inside, are amusing themselves by scattering sweets, 
bought by them off the refreshment table, among the ragged little 
urchins outside in the street. These naked, handsome little creatures 
are now having a real good time with their “ scrimmies,” as they call 
these wild plungings after the sweetmeats in the open street. Poor 
little beings ! — so ragged that, for the most part, the clothing so desired 
by the rector would, if distributed among them, be not altogether suf- 
ficient ; but such happy jolly little beggars! Their roars of laughter 
resound through the village street. 

“ There are a few oranges left : let us give them to them,” says 
Terry to Mrs. Adare. Terry is now peering over Larry’s shoulder at 
the joyous turmoil below. 

“ Yes, let us,” says Fanny. “ Robbie, bring me those oranges. 
And, Terry darling, won’t you come home with us now ?” 

“ No, I think not. I seem to have been a long time away from 

the boys, and they don’t do their lessons unless though indeed,” 

anxiously, lovingly, “ they are the very best boys. But, Fanny,” 
Yol. LIL— 37 


578 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


looking at her cousin a little shyly, “ I — I wanted to ask you, would 
you all come down and take tea with me and the boys in the garden 
to-morrow ? The — the house,” blushing, “ is very shabby, but the 
garden just now is looking very well, and I thought — I should like — 
that is ” 

“ What a lovely idea !” says Fanny. “ You may bet upon every 
one of us. We’ll come in our thousands. And look here, Terry, I’ll 
send you down a cake or two, eh ?” 

“ No,” says Terry, gently. “ I — I should like to do it all myself. 
I can make cakes, you know, Fanny; and ” 

“ Oh, I know, — I know, indeed ! Such cakes ! They make my 
mouth water already, the very remembrance of them,” says Mrs. Adare, 
who really is delightful in many ways. 

“Then you’ll come. About four. And bring them all,” says 
Terry. 

“ Oh, I shan’t have to bring them. They’ll flock to you,” says 
Fanny, laughing. She kisses her and runs away, and then runs back. 

“ Terry, look here. You’d better ask Aunt Bridget.” 

“Yes, I know. I’ll ask her now,” says Terry, making a faint 
grimace. 

“ Now be sure you do,” says Fanny, who has always Terry’s inter- 
ests at heart. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

If all the mountains were of gold, 

And all the seas of wine, 

I’d rather have thee than them all, 

Sweet maiden, treasure mine. 

“ How ideal ! What a little heaven !” sighs the Poet, ecstatically. 
“ A veritable haven of rest in this too, too dreadful world.” Here his 
ecstasies so far overcome him that he sinks into the most comfortable 
chair on the grass, — the one, too, nearest the rustic tea-table. Ecsta- 
sies are astonishingly useful sometimes. “ Ah !” — glancing round 
him at Terry’s garden, — “ the blessedness of it ! The rest ! The 
peace ! The knowledge that the great coarse world” — shivering — “ is 
so far away from us ! — over there, perhaps,” waving his delicate hand 
towards the hills that on the east bound their horizon, “ behind those 
silent unbuilt walls of nature.” He glances up at those near him, with 
what he fondly but erroneously believes to be a pale ethereal smile, and 
whispers, faintly, “ One should kneel in a shrine like this !” 

“ I quite agree with you, my dear fellow,” says Mr. Kitts, who, 
dressed in great splendor, is evidently bent on making Terry’s “at 
home” a success, — Terry being the heroine of his latest platonic attach- 
ment. “Let us all kneel!” he cries, enthusiastically, tilting up the 
Poet’s comfortable chair with an evident burst of excitement, and so 
bringing that aesthetic young man to a standing position, almost before 
he is aware of it. 

“Is metaphor unknown to you?” demands the latter, regarding 
Kitts with a mournful but at the same time a searching eye. (“ A 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


579 


man to be avoided,” he decides. “ A mere worm !”) “ In this pale 

lifeless time it is injudicious to give way to the sweet and free emotions 
that should sway us. I do not kneel in public,” says Mr. Evingley, 
who is still perhaps sufficiently far from the stars to be able to think of 
his trousers. 

“You forget church, Mr. Evingley,” says Miss Bridget, with 
heavy remonstrance. She has by this time been bowed and smiled by 
Mr. Kitts into the Poet's vacant chair. 

“ Memory means slavery !” says the Poet, sadly. He has not 
looked round him, he has not seen that his chair has been impounded. 
“And poets ” 

“ Never, never — never shall be slaves !” says Larry suddenly at the 
top of his high, jubilant voice. 

The effect produced by this outburst is hardly to be exaggerated. 
The Poet totters backward into the seat he has just vacated, and 
which he fondly believes to be vacant, right into Miss Bridget's lap. 
The wild squeal which that maiden gives on receipt of this unexpected 
burden is not to be surpassed by the shrill scream of the Poet, as, 
partly propelled by the indignant spinster (Larry always swore after- 
wards that she had pinched him), partly through sheer fright, he 
springs upward into the air. 

It is all hushed up as quickly as possible, of course, though Miss 
Bridget is still evidently seething in her own wrath. 

“ I'm so sorry, dear fellow,” says Mr. Kitts, who, I regret to say, 
is convulsed with laughter, “ but as I thought you were really going to 
kneel, I gave up that comfortable chair to — er — one of the unfair sex. 
By Jove !” in a low, sympathetic tone, “ she has been unfair, you know. 
I hope,” sweetly, “ she hasn't hurt you.” 

“ Dear lady ! No, she has not hurt me. It was a distress of the 
moment. No more, no more !" says the Poet, quite beautifully. Mr. 
Kitts almost admires him. “And as for women, dear friend, pray 
do not speak of them as unfair. They are always fair. And they 
have their own little gifts, as you will see, if you go into it, — their 
pretty charms, their tricks ” 

“ Like kittens,” suggests Mr. Kitts, eagerly, as if dwelling on his 
thoughts and desirous of following them. 

“ Yes, yes. You take me, I see,” says the Poet, poising himself 
on one &g and beaming on Kitts, in spite of his decision about him a 
few minutes ago. But adulation is so sweet, and so hard to get — with 
some people ! “ Kittens ! Quite so. Little cats ! The dearest 

women have something of the tiger in them, you know. Not to be 
trusted ! Ah ! I have a sweet poem on that idea, — not as yet vulgar- 
ized to the paper form, but here — here,” tapping the place where he 
supposes, poor dear man, that his brains lie. “ Women have their own 
place,” he continues sententiously, unconscious of the fact that Kitts is 
longing to go for him. “ They have their beauty. And if Nature 
has denied them intellect, poor souls, still their beauty, transient though 
it is, gives us refreshment as we wander through this gloomy vale.” 

“ Who's us ?'' asks Mr. Kitts, with a frown of perplexity. It is a 
rather dangerous frown. 


580 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Dear friend, surely I need not reply. Why, we — the lords of 
creation, — we, the creatures of intellect. We, who can rule the world 
with our thoughts, our aspirations, our genius ” 

“Do you know,” says Mr. Kitts, surveying him calmly, but 
straightly, “you’ll get yourself kicked if you go on like that?” 

“ Eh? What?” says the Poet, as if not able to believe. 

“ Yes. Kicked. Kicked, I assure you,” says Mr. Kitts, turning 
on his heel. 

Terry is now pouring out the tea, Fanny chatting beside her. 
Larry is laughing with Miss Anson over some absurd mistake of yes- 
terday, whilst Max and Geoffrey, in their best clothes and manners, 
and with their stockings very carefully but most unmistakably darned, 
are handing cakes to everybody. 

Trefusis is helping Terry, his heart somewhat disturbed within him. 
Terry is looking lovely, quite lovely, poor child, in spite of the shabby 
old serge gown in which she is dressed ; a gown scrupulously neat, but 
old, so old, and yet — the sting lies here — so undoubtedly her best. 
There is something of anger in the glance that Trefusis from time to 
time sends from her to Miss Anson. The latter is so exquisitely 
frocked ; everything is so exactly as it should be, everything so toned ; 
it is the very art of dressing ! Trefusis feels his soul rebel against the 
contrast. Why, why will Terry let no one help her? Surely pride 
can go too far. It hurts him in a strange angry way that she, the girl 
he has chosen out of all the world, should be one whit behind the very 
best the world can show. 

It is not altogether an ignoble anger ; it is an anger, indeed, for 
her, more than for himself, — a sort of jealousy of love. He throws it 
from him after a bit. Terry, after all, is always Terry. Nothing 
could improve her. Nothing can perfect perfection. And Terry in 
her old frock is what Miss Anson, with all Worth’s genius at her back 
(or on it), could never be. And then a quick thought comes to him, 
and his eyes lighten. There is no need to be impatient. Soon, soon 
she will be his, and she shall walk in such “ silk attire” as few have worn. 

The Poet is again holding forth, but now to Larry. 

“ How picturesque it all is !” says he. “ And how she suits it !” 

“She’d suit anything,” says Larry, looking at Terry. 

“Yes, she’s a picture in herself,” says the Poet, laying his head 
delicately on one side, — the side where he thinks his heart is. “ I 
am glad to find a brother devotee at Miss Anson’s shrine.” 

“ Miss Anson ! I wasn’t thinking of her,” says Larry. “ Though 
of course I” — chivalrously — “ admire her too. But — er — there’s a 
good deal of her, isn’t there ?” 

“ Could there be too much of perfection ?” asks the Poet, plain- 
tively. 

“ I suppose not,” says Larry. “ But Miss Anson is big, eh ?” 

“Ah, the charming creature!” cries the Poet. “She is supreme, 
exquisite. One can take her, as it were, by degrees. She lasts. She 
lasts.” 

“Do you mean that you cut her up?” asks Larry. “You should 
be careful, you know. Women hate being cut up.” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


581 


“ Her eyes yesterday, her lips to-day, her perfect chin to-morrow,” 
goes on the Poet, sighing heavily. “ She is a perpetual feast. She is a 
thing of beauty, as that very much overrated person called Keats once 
said : pray excuse my quoting him. She has so many charms that one 
hardly knows how to take them all in at once. She is dear, — very 
dear !” 

“ At any price,” says Larry to himself, but out loud he says, “ You 
should not let her be. Not now, you know ; this is a cheap age. And 
if you want her eyes, her lips, and her chin, why, ‘ reduction made if 
a quantity taken/ you know, and you like quantity, evidently.” 

“ I fail to understand you,” says the Poet, shaking his head. 

“Well, Pll explain, /like quality,” says Larry, nodding at him 
with a beaming smile. He adds to his iniquity by going off imme- 
diately to where Terry is standing behind the tea-table. 

The day is waning. Evening is coming on. Trefusis is still help- 
ing Terry with the tea, Mr. Gabbett and his sister having happened to 
drop in rather late. Terry after a minute or two has moved away. 
Mr. Kitts is helping the boys to eat the hot cakes. It is quite aston- 
ishing how he does it, seeing that he never stops talking all the time. 

Trefusis has stooped to whisper some little pleasantry into Terry’s 
ear, — some little trifling thing apropos of something going on over 
there where Miss Bridget is sitting, — and Terry has lifted her flower- 
like face to his in answer. Almost for the first time her eyes look 
calmly, steadily, friendly-wise into his. She smiles at him. Trefusis’s 
heart gives a bound. Never has she seemed so near to him as now, in 
this hour, in this her own home. 

Larry, unfortunately (his eyes are never very far from Terry), sees 
that glance of his, and Terry’s answering smile. He turns abruptly 
away, and grows almost boisterous in his attentions to Geraldine Anson. 
He is evidently telling her a story, vivisecting one of the near neighbors 
with a view of bringing a laugh to her lips, — in reality to let Terry 
see that his heart is void of even one touch of pain. 

“ What is it, Larry ?” asks Mrs. Adare, who knows all her brother’s 
moods and is now very sorry for him. Perhaps she too has seen that 
little growing towards Trefusis in Terry’s air, and has understood. 

“Oh, nothing. Only that old story about the duchess. You re- 
member it? About the night she was playing backgammon at the 
Mackenzies’, you know.” 

He laughs lightly, but falsely, as his sister knows. “ If you don’t, 
Terry will,” says he, looking straight at Terry. It seems to him now 
as if he must bring her attention back to himself and away from 
Trefusis, if only for a moment. 

“ Yes, I remember,” says Terry, smiling sweetly at him over her 
teapot. 

“ I don’t believe it,” says Miss Anson. 

“ What ! That she doesn’t remember ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no. — Miss O’More, isn’t he silly ? Of course she re- 
members ; women always remember — afterwards !” She says this with 
a strange, swift glance at Trefusis, that seems to warn him of trouble 
in the future connected with Larry. “ I mean that I don’t believe that 


582 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


story of yours. — Your brother,” turning to Mrs. Adare, “says that 
the duchess was once playing backgammon with Sir Darby Mackenzie, 
and that she swallowed the dice !” 

“ One of them. One of them,” says Laurence. “ She was eat- 
ing filberts, — she is always eating nuts of one sort or another, — and, 
the rigor of the game growing too much for her, and finding that Sir 
Darby was winning, she concluded that one of the dice was a filbert, 
and swallowed it.” 

“ What a remarkable story !” says Miss Anson. “ And — what 
happened ?” 

“ They had to get a stomach-pump, I believe, and ” 

“ Laurence!” says Mr. Kitts, fixing him with his eye-glass, “ did 
you ever hear that a thing may go too far ?” 

“ Rather !” says Larry, calmly. “ One of those dice went too far, 
anyway. It was never heard of again.” 

“ He’s incorrigible !” says Mrs. Adare, throwing up her hands. 
“ And it wasn’t one of the dice, Larry. It was her false tooth.” 

“ Anyway, she frightened old Sir Darby out of his senses.” 

“ You’ve ruined your tale,” says Mrs. Adare. “No one will be- 
lieve in it now. We all know that for the last twenty years of his life 
he had no senses to be frightened out of.” 

“ It was wonderful how straight he could keep at times, though, 
when it suited him.” 

“ When his wife had her eye on him, you mean.” 

Here Mr. Kitts gives way to mirth. 

“ Do you remember that last time we saw him ? — when the English 
fellow came round on a temperance crusade ? He didn’t know any- 
thing about Sir Darby’s propensities, of course, and, thinking the title 
would sound well on the notices, asked him to take the chair at the 
meeting in the village. And he came, you know,” — to Miss Anson, 
who is perhaps the only person present who doesn’t know the sorry 
tale, — “a little — -just a little — d’ye see? and when he got on his legs 
to start the show, he — ha ! ha ! — never got beyond the opening sen- 
tence. And what was that , d’ye think? ‘ Ladies an’ gemmen, I’m so 

full of the subjeck ’ Ha ! ha ! ha ! he got no farther. He was 

so full of the subject,” roars Mr. Kitts, “that he slipped, and was 
carried out by the temperance man.” 

“ Oh, was he ?” says Miss Anson. She looks perplexed. “ And 
what was the subject?” asks she, curiously. She is certainly terribly 
English. 

At this Mr. Kitts turns away sadly and reproachfully, leaving 
Larry to explain. 

“ Whiskey,” says that young man, in a cheerful tone. 

Providentially at this moment something occurs to change the 
current of their thoughts. It is the afternoon post : it consists of one 
letter for Terry, who, letters being very rare with her, seizes upon it, 
and, after a little glance at Fanny as if to ask permission, tears open 
the envelope. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


583 


CHAPTER XVII. 

I thought that the swallow was wooing already 
Her mate to the nest ; 

I thought that the wild bee with kisses already 
The first rose pressed, 

And that thou wert clasping me, Love, already 
Close to thy breast ! 

She is still reading it, when Max, swooping down upon her from 
behind, snatches it out of her hand. 

“ Now,” cries he, darting away with it, “you told me yesterday you 
had no secrets from any one, so I’ll read this out loud.” He holds up 
the letter teasingly, as if about to begin. 

“ Max !” cries Terry. There is something so sharp, so agonized, in 
her tone, that Trefusis starts, and looks at her. Her face ! What a 
face ! Crimson when first he sees it, and now absolutely colorless, as 
white as paper, and with something in the eyes that is surely fear. 

“ Max, give me back my letter,” says she, trying to control her 
voice, but failing. “ Max, do you hear?” 

She is actually trembling. It is fear, then, that is stirring her ! 
Trefusis feels suddenly as if everything has given way beneath him. 
Only a moment ago, and his path had seemed firm, sure ; and now the 
earth has suddenly opened. He had never been so sure as in that 
moment ago. He had told himself that all was coming right with 
her and him, and now, now, suspicions seem to swarm upon him. 
What is in this letter to make her look like that? — guilty, — yes, guilty, 
frightened. Would he have his wife look like that? She is not his 
wife yet, and his doubts of her are many and various. If, when she 
was his wife, he saw her look like that 

Larry, happening at this instant to look at him, reads the situation 
in a glance, and something of contempt enters his heart. He, that cold, 
cynical fool, to doubt her ! 

“ A love-letter, Terry ?” he asks. There is malice in the question, 
— a sort of mad longing to dig a little dart into Trefusis’s soul. Had 
he thought his idle, mischievous words would cause Terry the very 
faintest annoyance, it is only fair to him to say that he would have 
died rather than utter them. 

Terry turns her large eyes on his. 

“ Get it, get it for me !” says she. Larry takes a quick step for- 
ward, seizes Max by the neck, and adroitly pulls the letter out of his 
hand. 

“ Here it is,” says he, holding it out to Terry, whose fingers close 
over it with a most unmistakable haste. Trefusis moves abruptly 
away. Whatever this letter means, and it occurs to him that it means 
nothing, so far as either he or O’More is concerned, still it was to 
O’More she had turned for help ; not to him , the man she has promised 
to marry. 

It is another little fillip to the already too great anger that is burn- 
ing in his bosom. The letter — it was not from him or from O’More ; 
certainly it was then from a third. How many lovers has she? And 
who is this last one, of whom no word has been uttered up to this? 


584 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


With an impatience that scorches him, but that he hides so com- 
pletely beneath the self-control that nothing can ruffle, he waits until 
the last of Terry’s guests have driven away from her door, and then 
turns to her. 

** I want to speak to you,” says he, abruptly. 

“To speak to me?” The girl stares at him, lost in wonder. What 
does the cold anger in his face mean ? She, once the letter was returned 
to her, had thought nothing more about it, had not understood that it 
might be a subject of thought to others. She had been taken up with 
her guests, and had scarcely had time, even if she had knowledge of 
it, to take notice of Trefusis’s coldness. “ You wish to speak to me?” 

“ Yes,” says he, strong displeasure in his tone. 

“ Well, speak.” 

“ Not here, where we may be interrupted ; in the garden.” 

“Come, then.” She takes the initiative, going, indeed, quickly 
before him, not speaking another word until the sweet precincts of the 
garden are gained. Here she stops. 

“ It has always been so peaceful here,” says she. “ I have had 
nothing hateful said to me here to make it sad to me.” 

“ Here or there,” says he, remorselessly, “ I shall speak to you.” 

“ Come, then,” says she. She passes through the pretty hedges, 
and then stands still. 

“You had a letter this afternoon.” His air is rather too like the 
counsel on the other side. 

Terry looks at him with great surprise. 

“ Yes, you know that,” says she. His continued gaze, however, 
mingled with the remembrance of what that letter contained, brings 
a bright and beautiful flush to her face. 

Unlucky blush ! It inflames his ire. As if driven to frenzy by 
it, he turns upon her. 

“ I may as well say at once what is in my mind,” says he, in the 
slow hold-back sort of way that always incenses her ; “ it will be better, 
fairer. I have asked you to marry me, and you have said ‘ Yes.’ You” 
— looking at her for the first time — “you have said yes?” 

“Why ask me?” she replies. “There is nothing to contradict. 
But what has all this got to do with — the letter?” 

“ Something, surely.” 

“ Nothing, certainly.” 

“Do you say that? Will you tell me that there was nothing in 
that letter you did not wish me to see? Me? The man who is to be 
your husband ?” 

There is passion in his tone now. Terry’s delicate face flushes. 
She hesitates. What does it all mean? What can she say? 

“ I ” begins she, faintly. She stops. The stop is fatal. 

“Don’t be unhappy about it,” says he, coldly. “You need not 
answer me. Your face,” with a contemptuous smile, “ is answer enough. 
And your agitation when your brother seized that letter, — your fear 
lest he should betray its contents ” 

“Well,” says Terry, interrupting him hurriedly, “it was my own 
letter. Even supposing all you say to be true, that I did not wish you 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 585 

to see it, — still it was my own letter, my own affair. It had nothing 
to do with you, or any one.” 

“ Nothing to do with me !” His face is as white as death now, his 
tone quite steady, however. “ You think I take things like that? — 
so easily ? Have I no rights, then ? — not even the right to wonder at 

the emotion you showed on receiving a letter from some one who 

Not even the right to demand to see that letter ?” 

“ You mean ?” 

“ I mean,” steadily, “ that you ought to show it to me.” 

“You mean that !” Her voice is almost a whisper. “ You insist?” 
says she, faintly. Her manner, that has something of shame in it, 
maddens him. Shame ! Shame in that proud little face ! 

“Yes. I insist,” he declares, coldly, brutally, though his very 
heart is torn within him. 

Slowly, very slowly, the girl draws the letter from her pocket, 
slowly too withdraws it from its envelope, and, still holding it tightly 
in her trembling fingers, as though her very life depends upon the 
keeping of it, looks at him. 

“You do insist?” she asks, miserably. It is as though she is 
craving pity from him. It is plain to him that she would rather die 
than give up this letter. 

Half beside himself with rage and bitter disappointment, he can 
only see one side of the question, — her evident reluctance to give him 
the letter. What he cannot see is that she is giving him a last chance 
to keep and hold her forever. 

“ I do !” he decides, with icy determination. 

“You suspect me, then, of something?” Even to herself, so hur- 
ried has all this been, she can hardly place the miseries of this most 
miserable hour. Of what does he suspect her? 

“ How can I help it ?” His eyes meet hers with a hard glance. 
He holds out his hand. 

“ The letter,” says he. It is a command. 

Terry lays it in his open palm. 

To his everlasting dishonor, as he owns to himself afterwards, he 
opens it, and reads. And as he reads, the very pains of death seem to 
get hold of him. There is so little to read, but how much it means 
to her ! To have shamed her thus ! — and such a sad little guiltless 
shame, — such a betrayal of all she would have hidden ! 

His face flushes a dark red, then whitens. He feels as if he cannot 
lift his eyes from the page before him, as if he dare not meet her eyes. 
If she had wished for revenge, surely she has it now ! His punish- 
ment is even greater than his crime. 

He crumples the letter convulsively in his hand. But not all the 
crumpling in the world can shut out from his sight the words that lie 
within it. They are burned indelibly upon his brain. 

“ To one black skirt re-dyed ... 2s. 6 d.” 

“ You might have told me,” says he, hoarsely. 

There is no answer. A very storm of hatred against him is shaking 
the girl’s soul. For a while she keeps silence, scarcely daring to let 
herself speak. She is trembling violently, more perhaps from some 


586 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


sudden inward certainty that here, now, a crisis in her life has arrived, 
than from the actual circumstance that has led to it. Between him 
and her all is over, — done ! She has borne much, — much, — but not 
even for the boys can she bear more. A sort of strength arising out 
of this decision, she speaks. 

“ Do you think,” says she, very slowly, very carefully, as if afraid 
to let her agitation get the better of her, “ any words of mine would 
have convinced you, would have kept you from distrusting me? You 
have distrusted me often, Gerrard,” — it is noticeable that this, the 
hour in which she has decided on a final rejection of him, is the one in 
which for the first time she has called him by his Christian name, — 
" but you have gone too far, at last !” 

“ Terry !” 

“ Don’t touch me,” says the girl, with so sharp an intonation, so 
horrified a drawing back from him, that something of the truth is 
borne in upon him. “ I only want to say a few words, — to tell you 
that I shall never forgive you for having read that letter. I” — lifting 
now her burning eyes to his — “ I was ashamed of it ! I” — with pas- 
sionate honesty — “ am ashamed of it ! I don’t care what people say 
about there being nothing to be ashamed of in poverty : it is the rich 
people who say that. I am poor, and I am ashamed !” 

“ But not — of me ?” 

“ Of you, most of all people !” she declares, bitterly. “ I desired 
you, least of all people, to know how poor I was.” 

If he had dwelt upon it, this might have given him some little 
hope; but his mind is beyond control. 

“ You cannot think that that letter can matter to me,” he cries, dis- 
tractedly, cursing himself at heart for his hideous cruelty. 

“ I am not thinking of you,” she answers, coldly. “ To me — to 
me, it matters !” And then suddenly, without word of warning, she 
bursts out crying ; not loudly, or vehemently, or aggressively, but with 
a most terrible grief. 

She has been mortified, hurt, crushed to her very heart’s core. 

“ For God’s sake, Terry, don’t go on like that,” says Trefusis, 
choking. “ On my knees I ask your pardon. You will — you must 
grant it.” 

“ No.” The word is not loudly spoken, but there is finality in it. 
She checks her sobs by a violent effort, and almost before he has time 
to recover from the shock her manner has given him, she is gone. 

In the privacy of her own room, she tells herself again that, no 
matter what it may cost her, she will break with him. It will be an 
ordeal, but it shall be gone through. Fanny will be angry, and Aunt 
Bridget furious, but nothing, nothing shall alter her decision. She 
feels, as she paces up and down her large, gaunt, ill-furnished old bed- 
room, in spite of all the difficulties she will have to undergo, a great 
uplifting of the spirit, a joy immeasurable, in the thought of flinging 
back his money in his face, — of letting him see that poverty dire and 
stern as hers is — and surely he has had proof of it this evening — is 
preferable to life with him. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 587 

No, she was mad when she thought she could sell herself for dross, 
mere dross ! 

When he calls next morning, sending up a second time an urgent 
message to let him see her, if only for two minutes, she still persists in 
her refusal to go down-stairs, alleging a convenient headache as her 
reason. 

As a fact, a sleepless night has left her overstrung, and she wishes 
to be at her best and coldest when giving him his dismissal. She will 
put it off till to-morrow. 

When to-morrow comes, however, she is sorry for this. For to- 
morrow brings terrible news, that alters the whole tenor of her life. 
And it would have been better — fairer to herself — if she had spoken to 
him first. 

To-morrow brings the news of Miss Bridget’s death. 

* * * ***** 

On Friday she had taken tea with Terry and all the others in 
Terry’s garden. On the following Sunday she was found dead in her 
bed. It had been a death not wholly void of disagreeable details, 
but these Mrs. Adare keeps from Terry for a long time. The poor 
woman had evidently had a struggle for her breath at the last, and 
was found lying half in and half out of the bed, one hand clutching 
the carpet. 

Her will, read a little later on, showed that she had left every penny 
and every acre she possessed in the world to Terry. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Leave me, simple shepherd, leave me ; 

Drag no more a hopeless chain. 

I cannot like, nor would deceive thee : 

Love the maid that loves again. 

“ If it had been any one but you ! You so honest. Are you sure 
that you know what you are doing ?” asks Trefusis, regarding her with 
a frowning brow. 

“ Oh, I know all you would say !” cries Terry, with deep agitation ; 
she clasps her hands together with convulsive misery. “ All ! all ! I 

have been through it myself. I know what I seem to you, but ” 

She breaks down. 

It is ten days later, — ten days which have been given up to the 
mourning of Miss Bridget, who wouldn’t have given up one hour for 
the sake of anything in earth or heaven. Terry had been a little 
glad of these ten days of solitude: they had kept her from seeing 
Trefusis. And though a lover, in most cases, might be admitted at 
any time or on any occasion, she ordained it otherwise in her own case. 
It helped her to put off the evil hour of renunciation for a day or 
two at least. 

But time, like most things, is a failure. There is nothing sub- 
stantial in it. Conscious of its defects, no doubt, it flies from us. The 


588 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


ten clays have come to an end, and with them Terry’s reprieve. To- 
day — now — she is standing looking at Trefusis, with her breath scant, 
and her eyes a dream of misery. She has at last laid bare to him her 
settled determination to end their engagement. 

“ But what,” — sternly, — “ what do you think you seem to me?” 

“ False and worldly.” She turns more directly to him, compelling 
herself to it with fear and sad misgivings at her heart. He will judge 
her harshly. But she is acting rightly, well. 

However sure she may be of this, she has certainly grown very 
pale. Trefusis, with cold questioning eyes, can see that she is deeply 
disturbed. But how beautiful she is through all her sadness and dis- 
tress ! He knows her well enough to understand that this dividing of 
herself from him is a distress. How sweet she looks, — 

White as the sun, fair as the lily ! 

She has clinched her hands tightly together before going on. 

“ I know what you think. It is open to all people to think now. 
That I accepted you when I was poor, and threw you over when I — 
was no longer poor. I wish — I wish,” with almost passionate regret, 
“ that I had said all this to you that evening, when ” 

“ When I read your letter,” he puts in quickly, as if defying her 
reserve. 

“ Ah ! that letter !” 

“ But for it, perhaps ” 

“ No, no !” She lifts her hands. “ It would have made no differ- 
ence, I think. I had often wanted to tell you that I could not marry 
you. And that letter, — it made an end, nothing more. But what I 
wish is,” her voice vibrating with poignant sorrow, “ that I had said 
all this to you before her death !” 

“For how long have you wanted to tell me you could not marry 
me ?” asks Trefusis, in a strange tone. 

“ I don’t know.” She presses her hands against her eyes, as if to 
compel memory, or else to shut him out. “ I know nothing as it should 
be. It is all so strange, so dark. But I do know that I meant to tell 
you, long before my aunt’s death, that I would not marry you. I did! 
— I did !” she cries, her eyes tearless, but her voice full of weeping. 
“ You do — you must believe me !” 

He bows his head affirmatively if stiffly. 

“ But say it !” entreats she, with a vehement gesture. 

“ Of course I believe you. Do you think I could have loved you 
as I do, if I did not believe you ?” He draws his breath a little 
sharply. “ Now you have it all your own way,” says he, “ I hope you 
are satisfied.” He stops and smiles at her ; a queer smile, filled with 
many complex thoughts. 

“ You will be satisfied too,” says she, in rather a suffocated tone : 
he can see that she is crying now. “ You will be rid of me; you will 
forget me ” 

“ Probably,” coldly. “ What I shall not forget, however, is that 
I was engaged for some weeks to a girl who spent that time wondering 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 589 

how she could in any decent wise put an end to her engagement with 
me.” 

“ That is taking a very unkind view of it,” Terry cries, tremu- 
lously, and with a touch of indignation. “ The truth, the real truth, 
is plain to every one. And it places me altogether in the wrong. I 
should never have accepted you ; having accepted you, I should have 
kept to my word : yet I have failed in both ways. Oh, I know how 
I shall be regarded by my world. But you — now that all is over be- 
tween us — might be more generous to me. You” — looking suddenly 
up at him with sweet drenched eyes — “you must know how I shall be 
condemned and commented upon by many people, whereas you will 
go quite free.” 

“ Quite free,” bitterly. His tone troubles her. 

“Yes. Quite free, — without a backward thought,” says she, 
eagerly. “ For you know, you know, you never really loved me. It 
was a fancy on your part, — a mere passing fancy. But love, — there 
was no love.” 

A pause follows this, short but tragical, while they gaze into each 
other’s eyes. Then he catches her by her arms, holding her, reading 
her, his face transfigured from its studied calm to passionate anger. 
She has never seen him show so much emotion before. She had not 
thought him capable of it. It is a revelation to her. 

“A lie! A lie!” says he, between his clinched teeth, “and you 
know it.” Suddenly he flings her from him. “Pah! you are not 
worth remembering !” says he. 

On his way home through the park he meets Geraldine Anson. 
His brain still on fire, he has not time to conceal the anger that is con- 
suming him, when a sudden turn in the woodland path brings him face 
to face with her. He would have hurried by her with a slight recog- 
nition, but she stops him. There is wonder, gratified revenge, hope, in 
her expression, as she puts out her hand to check him. 

“Something has happened,” says she, breathlessly. “She has 
thrown you over ? It is at an end, that engagement ?” 

He bows his head. 

“It is as well that every one should know it, as soon as possible,” 
says he, making an effort to speak as usual, but failing. 

“ What !” cries Miss Anson. She breaks into a little low, strained 
laugh. “ She has flung you aside now, — now, when her future is safe 
without you. I knew she would do that. But so soon ! Has she no 
decency, no sense of delicacy? She used you as a prop until she got 
a stronger staff, then flung you remorselessly aside. Was that fair 
dealing ? Was that honesty ?” 

“ I never met any one so honest,” says Trefusis, a dull flush mount- 
ing to his brow. 

“ Honest ! Oh !” sharply, as if angered beyond control by his 
answer. “ One can be too generous. And to her, — to one who has 
treated you so treacherously ! What did I tell you when first you were 
engaged to her? Do you remember? Did I not warn you that she 
was clever ? — too clever ?” 


590 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ It is you who are too clever,” says Trefusis, with some suppres- 
sion. “ You fail to understand her.” 

“ Too dull, I suppose you mean,” with heavy asperity. “ I confess 
I do not aspire to such cleverness as hers. If you wish me to think 
that you still regard Miss O’More with admiration, — that you call her 
worthy of ” 

“ I call her nothing,” impatiently. He hesitates, and then goes on 
quickly, “ except the sweetest, the loveliest, the most desirable girl I 
have ever met.” 

“Your acquaintance with desirable girls must be limited,” says 
Miss Anson, quietly, but with a certain down-drawing of her lips. 66 1 
call her a jilt.” 

“ I hope you will not.” Trefusis turns to her ; his whole manner 
has undergone a change. There is extreme anxiety in it now. “We 
have been friends, surely,” says he, — “ friends now for three years. 
For the sake of that friendship I ask you to abstain from hard words 
towards Miss O’More.” 

“ You would spare her,” says she, frowning. 

“ And myself too. After all, she is nothing now to me ; nothing 
in the world, and never will be. Of your goodness be good to her. I 
am going away. I shall ” 

“ Going away ?” There is open concern on her face now. “ Where ?” 

“ Where do all rejected swains go ?” he asks, laughing : it is a 
rather dreary laugh. “ To the Rocky Mountains, isn’t it ? Perhaps I 
shall go there. And if not, somewhere else.” * 

“ I shall hear of you ?” she asks, as he moves past her with a kindly 
nod. 

“ Yes, you shall hear.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 

And, while ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime, 

You may forever tarry. 

It seems impossible, she tells herself, yet only a week has elapsed 
after the going of Trefusis before Terry knows that she misses him. 

At first — the first day or two, that is — there was a high sense of 
relief ; a feeling of liberty regained, of self-dependence restored. But 
the third day shattered all that. 

Its morning broke dull and cheerless. Rain was falling. From 
the ivy branches the drip-drip-drip of the rain-drops could be heard 
continuously all the day. Terry, rising from breakfast, wandered 
idly to the drawing-room. There, or in the garden, Trefusis used to 
come to her every morning. There was no one to come to-day. 

She thought his visits an intrusion then, while he was still in the 
country; determination had made her think them so; but when those 
visits were forever at an end, the morning felt very long. There was 
such an odd, strange feeling about everything, — such a blank! 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


591 


She walked from room to room restlessly. The news that he was 
gone had been conveyed to her by Fanny, in a letter. Fanny had dis- 
dained to bring the news, by which Terry knew that she was terribly 
angry with her. But Terry was so angry on a small account of her 
own that she passed over Fanny’s unjust indignation very lightly. 

Why had he gone thus, suddenly, without another word, then, when 
all was reversed between them, — when she was no longer the beggar- 
maid? 

How long the day was ! Yet it ought to be a festival with her. 
She was now rid forever of the visits she used to dread, — of the voice, 
the step. And yet 

He had played the lord over her, no doubt, until she had told her- 
self that she hated him. But that was all over, and her chance should 
have been given her. She would have liked to play the lady over him 
for a little, — if that could be done without the hateful tie of engage- 
ment. 

But he was gone. Fanny’s letter had told her that yesterday. He 
had gone away the morning after her final rejection of him. He could 
not have gone a moment earlier. He was glad of his escape, the girl 
told herself with a queer laugh. Thus ended that third day. 

This day is charming. A last taste of summer pervades it. It is 
a week later, and Mr. Trefusis’s going has become a thing of the past. 
Terry, leaning over the old balustrades of the balcony, looks to the 
south, where the light-blue clouds are blowing, and whence the stir 
of the sea can be heard. Larry, who is beside her, touches her arm, 
as if to bring her back from fairy-land, or whatever land it may be to 
which her thoughts have wandered. 

“ Yes?” says she, turning to him, her eyes a little vague. 

“ I wish you would try to help a fellow,” says Larry, in an ag- 
grieved tone. 

“ Help you ? Of course I’ll help you in any way I can.” 

“ Come down from the clouds, then,” says he, jealously. 

“Oh, clouds!” says she, laughing, a little uncertainly perhaps. 
“ Well, I’m down now : what can I do for you?” 

“You can marry me !” says Larry, promptly, brilliantly. It is a 
tribute to his innate honesty that it never for one moment occurs to 
him that he ought not to ask her to marry him now, because of the 
money she has just come into. To Terry also it must be allowed that 
not one base thought of her cousin on this subject helps her to her 
decision. 

She looks at him sadly. 

“ Well, mil you marry me?” he asks. 

“ No. Larry, don’t be angry with me. Every one” — pathetically 
— “is angry with me now, I think. But you won’t be, will you ? I 
couldn’t marry you. I don’t love you that way. I couldn’t, indeed !” 

“ I believe you are in love with that confounded prig after all, in 
spite of your sending him away,” says Larry, violently. “You have 
been moping for the last week; not a word for any one. Just look at 
your face.” 


592 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


Indeed, her face is a study. A deep blush has dyed it. So vivid, 
so painful is this rush of color that it brings tears to her eyes. All at 
once she knows that she is trembling. What had Larry said to make 
her feel like this, and why should it touch her so? It is false ! — false ! 
There is no truth in it. Yet it is only by a determined effort that she 
keeps herself from bursting into tears. 

“ You are rude,” she says, with a calmness that costs her a good 
deal. “ If I blush, it is for you, — your manner, — the way you speak. 
It is better to say the last word at once, Larry. I shall never marry 
you ; never. I” — tremulously — “ would rather be an old maid forever 
than marry you.” 

“ You won’t say that when you are an old maid ; and I’ll wait till 
then,” says the devoted Larry. 

Terry bursts into uncontrollable laughter. 

Our sweetest laughter with some pain is fraught, 

sang one not to be surpassed, some years ago; and, indeed, Terry’s 
mirth is full of unshed tears. 

“ Ah, don’t !” says she. “ It will be no use ; and look at my nose, 
Larry. I shall be a hideous old maid !” 

“ Oh, I’ll wait,” says he. “I’ll chance the nose!” At this they 
both laugh. 

* * * * * * * * 

Eight months have gone by, and once more sweet April is with us. 
The trees are all alive; each bush and shrub is casting forth its 
greenery. 

Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves, 

Of birds that build in thatch and eaves, 

Of woodlands where the throstle calls, 

Of girls that gather cowslip balls, 

there are enough and to spare. Terry, stepping into the sweet up- 
bursting garden, stands still, as if to take in all the delights around 
her. From a corner of the old orchard beyond, a stray wind has 
blown some blossoms on her head. 

“ Ah, it is sweet, sweet !” She sighs and throws out her arms pen- 
sively. The winter is over, — the long, long winter. 

She is glad to think of it as buried, dead. It was so terribly 
long, and so singularly dull, so inexpressibly dreary. Fanny had 
gone abroad, Fanny, who had been so cold to her, so almost unkind. 
J ust at the very last she had relented, and had asked Terry to go with 
her to Florence, but Terry had refused. 

There were the boys, she said. But the boys had not helped her 
to bear the dulness. Max had been sent to a grinder, preparatory to 
his entering college, and Geoffrey, with many tears on both sides, had 
gone to a good school at a great distance. So that, after all, the boys 
did not count. The winter had been almost too lonely for endurance. 

She had had no one to keep her company during the long cold 
nights. And sometimes, in her solitary sittings over the fire, she had 
thought of Trefusis. Her mind had gone after him a good deal when 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


593 


first he left her, and then had grown stagnant; but these sad silent 
evenings, when even the boys were away, compelled her to think of 
him again. Over and over her brain travelled across the road that 
had had him as a passenger. 

It was spring then too, and certainly he had made a little break in 
the monotony of her life. She acknowledged so much to her unwilling 
heart, and more than that. He had loved her! In the solitude of 
the winter she had learned to believe so much. Yes, he had loved 
her, in his own way, — a high and mighty way, no doubt, — but there 
was love in it, love all through it, for all that. 

•Here — to-day — this thought recurs to her again. 

A pattering of feet behind her brings her to sudden calm. She 
turns. 

“ Fanny !” she cries. 

u Here I am !” declares Fanny, most superfluously, flinging herself 
into Terry’s arms. 

“ You are back ! you are home !” says Terry, clinging to her con- 
vulsively. Oh, how sweet it is to see her again, to know that some 
human thing, in sympathy with her, is within a mile or so of her ! 

“ Came last night,” gasps Fanny, holding her back and shaking 
her lovingly. “ Silly baby, not to come with me ! But I’m back, any- 
way, and Terry, darling,” — with the fondest air, — “so glad to see you 
again. How sweet you look ! How sweet your garden looks ! — how 
sweet it all is !” 

“ You especially,” says Terry, catching her and kissing her again. 

“ Oh, get away, flatterer.” 

“ When did you come ?” 

“ A moment ago.” 

“ No !” 

“ Well, half an hour ago, and ran down to see you first thing.” 

“ Oh, Fanny !” 

“Yes, you ought to be conceited over it. But,” slowing off a 
little, “ the fact is, Terry, I ought to let you know at once that — Ger- 
rard is with us.” 

“ Mr. Trefusis !” 

“ Yes, Gerrard. He would come. I tried all I could to prevent 
him, but you know Robbie ! He’s such a fool. But I suppose it 
won’t matter much, darling, will it? As you are so indifferent to 
him ” 

“ And he so indifferent to me,” says Terry, smiling. 

“Oh, as for that, quite, I think. He talks of you in the most 
usual manner. He has quite got over that, I think, so you need not 
be worried about it in any way. And you’ll come up to dinner to- 
night, won’t you? Better get over it at once, you know, especially as 
he is going to stay here for a month.” 

“ Certainly I shall come,” says Terry. She feels quite unconcerned, 
quite calm and composed. She had thought she would have felt a kind 
of nervousness at meeting him again ; she had even once or twice 
imagined it possible that she had liked him more than she had known; 
but this sudden news of Fanny’s has dispelled all those hallucinations. 

Vol. LII.— 38 


594 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


It would be impossible to feel as unconcerned as she does at this 
moment, if there had been a sparkle of regret in her heart. 

“ That’s settled, then,” says Mrs. Adare. She lays her hands on 
the girl’s shoulders. “ You are looking pale,” says she, “ but, as I 
have always maintained, you are the most beautiful girl in the world. 
There, I must go,” giving her a friendly pat. “ I know I am bad for 
your morals. Half-past seven, mind.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

Her speech would have betrayed 
Her thought, had mine been colder ; 

Her eyes’ distress had made 
A lesser lover bolder. 

If Terry had been pale when Fanny spoke to her in the morning, 
she is still paler now, white as the white gown she wears, as she ad- 
vances up the drawing-room of The Hall to meet the hostess, who hur- 
ries to greet her. 

Every one is here, and though all the lamps are delicately shaded, 
still there is enough light to let her perfectly be seen. To her, in- 
deed, the room seems inordinately bright. Her pallor, however, is the 
only sign of emotion she betrays. She returns Fanny’s welcoming 
words, slowly, prettily, with a smile on her charming lips. 

She had seen Trefusis the moment she entered the room. He was 
sitting next Miss Anson, and Terry was conscious that the latter bent 
towards him and whispered something hurriedly to him as she came in. 

He has now risen, and is coming towards her, holding out his hand, 
and smiling pleasantly. There is not a touch of nervousness about 
him. He seems quite honestly glad to see her, telling her so in the 
friendliest, easiest way. 

Truly Fanny had been right. He has got over all that ! 

One thing only in his manner strikes her as strange, as apart from 
the ordinary manner of a mere friend who meets one after a long 
absence. Undoubtedly his gaze at her has been prolonged, scrutinizing, 
as if he would read her. This perhaps more than all else hardens her, 
and gives her courage, putting her on her mettle. 

She smiles back at him in a leisurely way. 

“ I heard you had gone to the Rocky Mountains,” says she. 

“ Not quite so far.” 

“ I am glad of it. It brings you here again sooner than we hoped 
for.” 

If he had looked for agitation in her, he is certainly disappointed. 
She is regarding him with a soft but steady gaze. There is even per- 
haps a suspicion of laughter in her eyes. She is altogether composed. 
She is even beginning to wonder at herself. After all, perhaps there 
was not so much to be afraid of ; and of course there is always a good 
deal of moral support to be got out of the remembrance that it was 
she who had given him his dismissal. 

There is a good deal of moral support to be got out of a well-made 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


595 


gown also ; and Terry had taken great care with her toilette for this 
evening. She is exquisitely if simply dressed. The white silk of her 
gown clings closely to her slender figure, and is charmingly arranged, 
with little touches of priceless lace about it here and there, round the 
short sleeves and the soft girlish neck. Old Miss Bridget had left 
many desirable things behind her, and the single row of pearls that 
clasps Terry’s throat is worthy of mention. There is a pearl pin or 
two also in the nut-brown tresses of her hair. Her hands, as she talks 
to him, are toying lightly with a large white feather fan. 

Her eyes gleam at Trefusis between the long dark lashes that fall 
so persistently, making the short glimpses of the eyes all the more 
precious : 

And when the Knight saw verily all this, 

That she so fair was, and so young thereto, — 

why, he left her and went back to his seat on the lounge next to Miss 
Anson. 

It was most naturally done, of course. Mr. Kitts had come up to 
speak to Terry, to renew acquaintance with this pretty creature who 
has grown so much prettier during this past year; and Trefusis had 
slipped away under cover of his approach, back to Geraldine, who 
gives him a broad glad smile of welcome. 

Terry is still standing in the middle of the room, the centre of 
attraction, a gay, happy, lovely thing — apparently. 

******** 

Dinner has gone off brilliantly, without a single check. Both 
Terry and Trefusis have been at their best. There is rather a large 
house-party, and every one has seemed exceptionally gay, — especially 
Mr. Kitts, who is dressed in the very latest fashion with regard to ties, 
and is altogether “ a beaming youth of glory.” 

The drawing-room, even thus early in the lovely May, is warm and 
sweet, and the fire burning in the grate drives Terry to the balcony 
outside. The windows have been thrown quite wide to admit the air 
and the pale glimpses of the moon in the dark heavens above. There 
is still time to stand here and let the soft night air cool her burning 
forehead before the men come in. She leans over the railings and 
gazes into the night. 

“ All alone ?” asks somebody in the airiest tone. He falls into a 
lounging attitude beside her, resting his own arms on the railings close 
to hers. 

“ Yes ; it was so warm in there that I came out,” says Terry. Her 
tone is of the friendly indifferent kind. “ The others were afraid to 
venture.” 

“ And you ?” 

“ I am afraid of nothing.” 

Trefusis looks at her persistently for a moment, then he laughs. 

“ I ought to know that,” says he. “ You aren’t even afraid of 
behaving badly to people.” He pauses. Then, “ How long ago it all 
seems, doesn’t it ?” There is distinct amusement in his tone. 

“It?” 


596 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Since you so unkindly gave me my conge /” 

“ Oh, no ! It seems like yesterday,” says Terry, laughing too, and 
very naturally. “ And you mustn’t call that behaving badly. It was 
the wisest thing I ever did in my life. You must see that. You were 
angry with me then. Do you remember,” turning suddenly and looking 
full into his face, “how ridiculously angry you were? But now — now 
you acknowledge my wisdom.” 

“You were always wonderfully wise. You have not even married 
your cousin,” says he. 

Terry’s fingers close with a tight pressure upon the iron railings. 
After a moment she turns to him. 

“You are changed,” says she, slowly. 

“ Thank Heaven !” 

« Why?” 

“ Why not? You at least ought to be thankful, considering how 
distasteful I was to you in those old days. But never mind that ; let 
us 2:0 back to what we were talking about just now. I like going 
back. Don’t you ?” 

“ I love it !” says Terry, with enthusiasm. 

He looks at her curiously again. She has accused him of being 
changed : what of her ? 

“ Then we’ll take a walk into the dark ages, and perhaps you will 
tell me, as we go, where your wisdom lay in” — cheerfully — “consigning 
me to misery for life.” 

“ Oh, as for that ! However, for one thing, I believe you expected 
me to obey you.” 

“ No ! did I, really ? What a confounded prig I must have been !” 

“ That is too hard a word.” 

“ Is it? What is the right one, then ?” 

“ Well, perhaps tyrant.” 

He looks amused. “ Is that softer ?” 

“ Oh, ever so much.” 

“ I’ll take your word for it. And so I was a tyrant ? A prig ? 
Do you know, I’m sure of it. But I’ve reformed all that. You gave 
me my lesson, you see. I owe you more than I can say, in many ways. 
Not to believe in my own judgment, for example; or to fancy myself 
so much; or to have faith in a woman’s word.” 

Terry raises herself. 

“ Don’t stir,” says he, laughing. “ Why, that is the greatest good 
of all that you have done me. It is, really. I was a fool that time. 
I should have seen that I was the last man in the world to please you, 
and that you were the honestest creature on earth, to break your word 
before it was too late. I,” laughing, “ am awfully obliged to you ! 
Fancy how I should have reproached myself if I had ruined your life. 
You saved me from that!” 

“ I saved you from more than that, — from ruining your own life,” 
says Terry, quietly. 

“ That’s nothing, nothing at all. It was your life was the thing. 
You see I am not so tyrannical as I was. And so you think I expected 
you to obey me?” 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 597 

“ Quite that, if not more. I think you expected me to bow down 
to you.” 

“ I expected in vain, then. I don’t believe I ever got my own way 
with you.” 

“ Always ! Always !” says she, gayly. 

“ Not always, certainly.” 

“ Yes, every time. You ordered me about and scolded me, and I 
bore it all most beautifully until I could bear it no longer.” She is 
looking at him and laughing, as if at some good old joke. 

“ And do you mean to say that you never ordered me about ?” 

“ I ? Never ! Why,” making a charming frightened little move- 
ment with her hands, “ I should not have dared !” 

“ You dared to order me about my business once, at all events,” 
says Trefusis, shaking his head at her with mock severity. “ You can’t 
have forgotten it. The day you sent me home like a whipped school- 
boy. You have not forgotten ?” 

“Ah, that last day.” She colors brilliantly in spite of herself. 
“ Well, but that was only one day out of your many.” 

“ Still, I never sent you home !” Here they both laugh. “ That’s 
one to me. And I believe if I had sent you, you wouldn’t have gone. 
So that makes two to me. I obeyed you to the end. I went straight 
home.” 

“ I believe you were very glad to go,” says she, involuntarily. The 
moment the words are said she would have given a good deal to get 
them back again, but that is impossible. There is so much meaning 
in them ; they almost convey a question, a challenge. The warm flush 
of a while since now deepens into a burning blush. The knowledge 
that he is looking at her gives her a little feeling of suffocation. “ I 
told you I was wise. I proved it in dismissing you that day,” she goes 
on, hurriedly, her smile a little strained. “ You,” glancing at him 
defiantly, “ must acknowledge that.” 

“ Wise, for yourself?” 

“ For you too.” 

“ That is true,” he says, thoughtfully. “ It was the wisest thing 
you could have done for me, certainly.” 

“For us both !” drawing back a little and letting something of the 
old imperious light flash into her eyes. 

“ I don’t know about that,” he says, audaciously. “ I should have 
made you an excellent husband, whereas you w r ere bound to make me 
a most indifferent wife.” 

“ Surely you are going a little far,” says Terry, haughtily. 

“ Well, you did not love me, you know, so I certainly should have 
had the worst of the bargain.” 

“It would never have been a bargain accomplished,” says Terry, 
“so we need not discuss it. I know now that I tried you greatly in 
many ways.” 

She pauses, as if for a contradiction, perhaps. 

“ You certainly were a little trying,” says Trefusis, mildly. 

She suppresses a slight angry movement of her hand. 

“ You see,” she says, quickly, “ if I had not taken the initiative, — 


598 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


if I had not given you your liberty, — you would have given me mine 
a little later ” 

She is looking at him: she has grown a little breathless. 

“Well, of course, if I had seen it was for your good ” he 

returns, calmly, critically. 

This is intolerable. Terry goes back to her old position, leaning 
upon the railing of the balcony : though she would have scorned to 
acknowledge that she is glad of its support, still she knows that she 
requires it. Indignation, indeed, has seized hold of her. 

“ Well, Fm glad I was the first,” she says, it must be confessed, a 
little vindictively. 

“ You were sure to be that,” somewhat slowly. If there is any 
meaning in his words she is too angry to dwell upon it. “ And of 
course I am grateful to you. By your own showing, you have saved 
us both from a terrible fate. I have,” pleasantly, “ much to thank you 
for.” 

“You certainly do not shrink from the acknowledgment of your 
debt,” coldly. She is standing up, and has moved as if to go back to 
the drawing-room. Is there pique in her tone? For a second she is 
conscious of being subjected once again to that strange penetrating gaze 
that had troubled her on her meeting with him to-night. 

“ Why should I?” 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupting him impatiently. “Do not let us have 
any more discussions. The past is past; over; done.” 

“That of course. But — one moment. We are friends, I hope?” 

She looks back at him over her shoulder. 

“You always hoped so much,” says she. “Were we ever friends?” 

She waits deliberately for an answer. 

Trefusis shrugs his shoulders. “You are always right,” returns he. 
“ I am afraid the answer must be, Never; but we might begin ,r 

There is something so indifferent, so mocking, in his tone, that 
Terry, turning abruptly away from him, steps into the lighted room 
beyond. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

I do not think a braver gentleman, 

More active valiant, or more valiant young, 

More daring or more bold, is now alive 
To grace this latter age with noble deeds. 

“ He’s a brute !” says Larry. 

The “ brute” is being led up and down by a groom before the hall 
door, on the steps of which all the guests of The Hall are standing. 

The beautiful horse, saddled and bridled, has just been brought 
back from a morning canter, — or a canter supposed to be taken, in 
which his rider has felt the earth many times, but no canter. He is a 
perfect picture as he stands there, with a little foam about the bit, 
standing immovable, quiet, nothing but the foam to betray temper of 
any sort, except perhaps the excessive whiteness of the eyes. 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 599 

“ You’ll never get a day’s good out of him,” continues Larry, ad- 
dressing Adare. 

“ Yet what a handsome creature !” says Trefusis, who is smoking 
a cigarette and talking to Fanny. Mr. Kitts on their right hand is 
carrying on a light skirmishing attack with Terry. 

“ Oh, yes, handsome, but useless. ‘ Handsome is as handsome 
does ;’ and his temper is unbearable. He’s a perfect devil. Not one 
of the grooms can ride him.” 

“ I don’t think much of grooms,” says Trefusis. “ Not for temper, 
I mean. They’ve courage enough, as a rule, but they’re impatient. 
Is it only the grooms ?” 

“ And enough, too, I think,” says Terry, coming forward, having 
been severely vanquished by Mr. Kitts. “ But it isn’t only the grooms. 
Larry tried to ride him last week, — -just the day before you came home, 
Fanny,” turning to her cousin, — “ and he was thrown. Larry, who can 
ride anything !” 

Trefusis flings his cigarette into a bush close by. 

“ Larry, who has all the virtues !” says he, glancing at her with a 
smile. It is now ten days since he came back to Ireland, and any 
little friction or embarrassment between them that might at first have 
been felt has quite died away. Terry has been constantly at The Hall, 
is now staying there, indeed, but, whether by chance or design, — she 
has a vague belief in the design, — Trefusis very seldom comes near her. 
“ And so Larry can ride anything !” 

He moves away from her to where Adare is examining a girth on 
the “ brute,” who is now standing as impassive as if vice and he were 
strangers. 

“ I don’t believe him so vicious as you all say,” says he. “ I 
believe,” slowly, “ I could conquer him. Give me a try, Adare, will 
you ?” 

“ My dear fellow, why ? He’s sure to do you some injury, even if 
you do get the upper hand.” 

“ Nothing is sure,” says Trefusis. “ And I’ve rather set my mind 
on taking him for a gallop over those fields below there.” He points 
to where beyond the tennis-courts a splendid lawn lies, with a field 
beyond that again. 

“ Well, you’re not a novice, as we all know 7 ,” says Adare. “But 
do look out for yourself. I assure you, as far as I can learn, O’More 
got a nasty fall with her the other day.” 

“ I’ll take care,” says Trefusis. He goes nearer, and prepares to 
mount, the groom holding the horse’s head. 

A hand is laid upon his arm. He turns, to find Terry beside him. 
Her face is very pale. She has been hardly conscious of this extreme 
step that she has taken, until she meets the deep surprise within his 
eyes. 

“ Don’t !” says she. It is impossible to retreat now : she must go 
on. 

“ Don’t what ?” 

“Don’t ride that horse. I” — brokenly, confusedly — “you must 
not think It is only that I cannot bear to see any one hurt. But 


600 


AN UNSA TISb A CTOR Y LOVER . 


lie hurt Larry ; and Larry has been riding all his life ; he is accus- 
tomed to horses ” 

u And I — am not ?” 

He laughs aloud, pushes her hand rather abruptly from him, and 
springs into the saddle. That allusion to Larry has irritated him. 

It is a hideous struggle. 

On first mounting, the horse had refused to move, standing there 
with his forefeet thrust out and firmly planted in the ground, his ears 
lying close to his neck. Then suddenly, without a second’s warning, 
he had bolted. 

Nobody had been frightened until then. That unexpected and 
vicious spring forward would have unseated most riders, but Trefusis 
kept his seat. As the brute swung round, he swung with him, and 
had a good hand on the rein, as he went wildly forward. 

Like a flash of lightning the horse tore past those standing on the 
hall door steps, dashing onward towards the lawn below. 

A lawn, of course, is as delightful a spot as one can meet with on 
which to try a conclusion with a nasty- tempered horse; but, unfor- 
tunately, Ad are’s lawn, as I have already stated, has a field lying be- 
yond it, — a field divided from the great broad lovely lawn by a ha-ha. 
Down there on the right side of this ha-ha a light wire railing about 
forty yards in length and one yard in height had been erected, to mark 
it dangerous, — just to prevent people from jumping it, as the ha-ha 
has been sunk much lower upon the other side of it than on the part 
above it. 

It is towards this spot, marked dangerous, that the now infuriated 
animal is dashing, with its head between its forefeet, and every sinew 
strung. 

“ Great heavens ! I hope he will be able to turn him,” says Adare, 
under his breath. He has changed color : he steps back a bit, and 
frowns nervously. 

It is clear, however, to them all that Trefusis has no longer the 
slightest control over the animal he is riding. He is sitting him firmly 
enough, and is apparently doing all he can to turn him aside, without 
avail. There is always little or nothing to be done with a runaway. 

Nearer, ever nearer, rush the horse and rider to that fateful spot in 
the ha-ha. Now they are almost at it. Now 

Fanny bursts into tears. Miss Anson covers her face with her 
hands. Terry, with her arms cast backward and her fingers clasping 
convulsively the chair behind her, is leaning forward, her face like 
marble, her eyes wide. 

She is rigid, tense; her gaze is fixed immovably upon the tragic 
scene below. 

Now indeed the tragedy is at its height. The horse has reached 
the wire railing, has risen to it, has cleared it badly, and has come with 
a sickening crash to the ground at the other side. 

“ Robbie ! Robbie!” cries Mrs. Adare, wildly, “you should not 
have let him do it.” 

“ My God ! what a time to reproach a man !” says Adare, with a 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER . 


601 


terrible glance at her. But even as he starts forward, the other men 
following him, they see Trefusis stagger to his feet, seize the reins, — 
the horse has already risen, and is standing shivering next him, — and 
fling himself once more into the saddle. 

A wild cheer bursts from those watching him. 

“ Oh, he is hurt !” says Terry, faintly. She drops into a chair. A 
wave of sickness passes over her. What is his pluck, or anything, to 
her, beside that thin line of blood running down his cheek ? 

They all see it now, that ugly stain, stealing from his forehead to 
his chin. But Trefusis himself appears either ignorant of it or in- 
different to it. He has the brute well in hand now, and this time the 
victory seems to the man. The lower field makes a capital course on 
a small scale, and round it he takes him and then turns him towards 
the house and thus up and over the ha-ha and past the group on the 
edges of the lawn, who cry to him in vain to stop. No power on earth 
would have stopped him then. Those looking on never quite forget 
his face, — pale, with that streak of blood upon it, and his eyes flashing. 
If he never looked handsome before, he looks handsomer now than 
most men, and a thrill of pride in him, that she does not dare define, 
runs through Terry’s heart. It is horrible, the way he is flogging the 
brute, she thinks; but she understands that, and how he feels. 

And now he has torn past them, down the lawn again, and has 
taken the horse over the ha-ha once more, but this time at his own pace 
and pleasure. And so on, until he comes to them once more, and 
drops from his saddle to the ground, smiling, but breathing with a 
little difficulty. It had been a battle, but he had won. The now 
thoroughly cowed creature stands trembling in every limb, and almost 
sobbing, beside him. 

“ Sell him !” says he to Adare, as a groom leads the horse away. 
“ I know his kind. I had a horse like that once. I conquered him 
too, but I found he required reconquering once a week. It wasn’t 
good enough. It was too fatiguing.” 

“By Jove! I never saw such riding,” says Larry, with honest 
admiration. Whatever else may be laid to Larry’s charge, it can cer- 
tainly never be the want of generosity. 

“He hasn’t got any mouth,” says Trefusis. He has glanced at 
Larry, as if curiously, first, and then has given him a friendly but 
deprecating shake of the head. “ Sell him for anything you can get 
for him.” 

“ I’d like to shoot him !” says Adare, wrathfully. “ Here, come in 
and have a whiskey-and-soda. You must be dead beat.” 

“A little shaken, I confess. The beast fell so stupidly. I’m 
afraid,” dabbing his face with his handkerchief, “ I’m rather a spectacle, 
but it is a mere graze. I feel nothing but my arm. That’s a bit stiff.” 

“ Well, come in and bathe it,” entreats his host, anxiously. 

As he goes, he passes by Terry, still sitting in that garden-chair 
and still very pale. He stops before her. 

“ Well, I can do one thing as well as your cousin ?” he says. There 
is undisguised triumph in his tone. It is open, flagrant. He seems, 
indeed, to glory in it. There seems to be no shame about him. 


602 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ Better,” says Terry, slowly, and then, “ But he would never have 
said that. He would have been too generous/’ 

“ He is perfection, I know. But you should remember that he can 
afford to be generous.” 

“ He ? Poor Laurence ! What has he ?” 

“Your friendship, at all events.” There is an emphasis on the 
word. 

“ That certainly,” calmly. 

At this moment Miss Anson lays her hand upon his arm. 

“You must come. You must, really,” says she, with great agi- 
tation. — “ Miss O’More, oh, don’t keep him. He must be in such 
pain. They tell me his arm has to be looked to at once. Heroes” 
— with a beatific smile at him — “never acknowledge pain, I know. 
And you ” There is a delicate appreciative pause. 

Trefusis spoils it. He moves past her, politely, but indifferently. 

“ Look here, Adare !” he cries, “ have you got a cigar about you ?” 

Mr. Kitts, who as a rule is always listening to what is not in- 
tended for him, here gives way to mirth. That is, he gets behind a 
big laurel shrub planted in a tub and laughs silently but heartily for a 
full minute. Larry, who has followed him very kindly into his exile, 
under the mistaken impression that he is going into a fit, now stares at 
him as if he is the eighth wonder. Mr. Kitts restrains himself suf- 
ficiently to say, “ One in the eye for her, old boy, eh ?” 

After which Larry leaves him, not without a sense of indignation. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

0 watcher on the minster hill, 

Look out o’er the sloping sea ; 

Of the tall ships coming, coming still, 

Is never a one for me ? 

1 have waited and watched the weary years 
When I to the shore could win, 

Till now I cannot see for tears 
If my ship be coming in. 

“ So you are not really hurt, then ?” says Terry, as Trefusis, cross- 
ing the room, seats himself on the ottoman beside her. 

Dinner is over, and the men have just come into the drawing-room. 
Terry had been specially bright and charming all through it, though 
Trefusis had known by her eyes that she had been crying. It gave 
him a cruel satisfaction. He has not yet forgotten — he knows he will 
never forget — the dull stinging pain that filled the months following 
on her dismissal of him. 

“ Not fatally,” he answers, with a touch of irony. “ I dare say 
with time and attention I shall recover. I hope,” looking at her, “ you 
will be attentive to me. You ought, you know, if only for old times’ 
sake.” 

He seems entirely gay over the “old times,” utterly callous to the 
memory of them. It annoys Terry bitterly, his constant harping upon 
this theme, and the manner in which he watches her as he lets fall 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 603 

each jesting allusion to it. What does he want, or expect, to see in 
her face ? 

She stoops now to pick up her handkerchief. 

“ I was so afraid your arm was broken,” says she, calmly, putting 
his last speech aside, as it were. 

“ So was I. A good thing it wasn’t, as Mrs. Adare has ordered 
us to dance to-night.” 

Fanny indeed has invited a few of the younger neighbors to come 
in for a small and early affair this evening. It is now a few minutes 
past nine, and already the door has opened to admit a little “ maiden 
of bashful fifteen” and her brother. 

“ It is too early to dance yet,” says Trefusis. He rises hurriedly 
and holds out his hand to Terry. “ Let us escape while we can,” says 
he. The window is open behind them, and in a moment they are 
standing on the balcony. 

A pale faint moon is lying upon a paler sky. Here and there a 
star is glimmering, and from the tangle in the shrubberies beyond the 
warm sweet scent of honeysuckle comes to them on a little vagrant 
breeze. It is such a white, white night that one can hardly yet believe 
the day to be quite gone, so clear lie the paths running along below 
them, so pink and blushing red the blossoms of the drowsy roses. Yet 

Yon gilded sickle of the new-made moon, 

Leading the pale lamp of the evening star, 

proclaims it night. 

Terry, in her gown of soft pink cr6pe, seems in unison with the 
hour. Her neck is gleaming snowy white in this pale radiance, her 
eyes are shining like the stars above her. She is standing, looking 
down at the colored sweetness of the rose-garden beneath, and her 
arms, happily guiltless of any covering, are hanging with the fingers 
loosely clasped before her. Sweet arms, so young, so delicate. She is 
not conscious of Trefusis’s gaze this time, a gaze of mingled anger 
and determination. It is a very searching gaze. 

The girl is startled back from her quick eager appreciation of the 
beauties of the night, by his voice. 

“ What were you crying about ?” he asks. His tone is blunt, 
almost rude. 

“Crying?” She blushes crimson, and her brow darkens a little. 

“Yes, crying,” immovably. “You had been crying before you 
came down to dinner.” 

“ How do you know that ?” she asks. He looks at her for a mo- 
ment, — it is a strange look, — and then he laughs. 

“ What ! you can’t even lie about that !” says he. “ Why should 
I not know how you look when you have been crying? If there was 
ever an authority on that subject, it is I. You,” with an amused air, 
“ were always crying more or less last summer. That was the exhila- 
rating effect your engagement with me had on you.” 

“ Well, I am not engaged to you now,” says Terry, with spirit. 
“ And yet you say I was crying.” 


604 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


“ I do. And,” he pauses, “ and” — slowly — “ because of me again.” 

“ Why should I deny it ?” says Terry, smiling, though her heart 
is beating. “ I was frightened. That horrible fall you got unnerved 
me. I hate scenes, so I went up-stairs and had,” laughing, “ my scene 
in my own room. I remembered how I cried over a poor man who 
got a bad fall at the water jump at the Cork Park races two years 
ago, and was determined not to make myself so unpleasant again before 
people.” 

Her manner is quite natural ; the little tremor in her voice as she 
began is now quite gone. She looks straight into his eyes ; he looks 
back at her as impassively as ever, yet he seems, for once, at fault. 

“ As to my crying all the time I was engaged to you,” Terry goes 
on, gayly, “ that only shows how right I was to put a stop to that 
ridiculous arrangement. We were (as you have said yourself) the last 
people in the world to suit each other, you and I.” 

“ You were the first to find that out.” 

“ Naturally,” she says, saucily. “ Women are always cleverer than 
men at things of that sort. You know you would always have given 
yourself the airs of a Cophetua.” 

“ Did he give himself airs? History, I think, is dark on the sub- 
sequent affairs of that immortal man.” 

“ No matter. You would have given yourself airs, certainly.” 

“ Should I?” He looks thoughtfully upon the ground. “Well, 
perhaps I should.” 

“ You know you are very masterful. Yes, you are. Think of 
that horse to-day.” 

“ Am I ?” meekly. “ Well, perhaps I am.” 

“ It is even likely that some time or other you would have re- 
minded me of the fact that you had married me without a penny.” 

Here Trefusis flings up his head. 

“Never!” says he, impulsively. “ I should never have done that.” 
He flushes a dark red. 

“ Wouldn’t you ? Well, perhaps you wouldn’t,” murmurs she, 
with such an exact imitation of his own tone that they both burst out 
laughing. 

“ Well, but you see you aren’t now ‘ the beggar-maid,’ ” says he. 

He says this and then stops. Terry’s heart almost stops too. 
What does he mean ? What is he going to say ? Again she knows 
that his eyes are on her, reading her and gloating no doubt over the 
fact that she has become as white as death. She struggles with herself, 
and by an effort faces him, her lovely eyes filled with some strange fear, 
her voice a little low, but her lips smiling. 

“ That spoils the story,” says she, “ if a story could be made out 
of it; but I’m afraid we are not in sympathy enough for that.” 

“Still, we have made a story,” says he, quickly. 

“True, but such a poor one, a bare half-volume, with a silly be- 
ginning and no end.” 

“That is an admission. Do you say the end is not yet?” 

“ I refuse to say anything,” she laughs. She seems in the merriest 
of spirits. A rich, sweet color has flown into her cheeks ; her pretty 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


605 


teeth are gleaming ; her eyes have a soft defiance in them. She seems 
farther from regret than ever. Melancholy has certainly failed to mark 
her for its own. Trefnsis tightens his teeth. 

“ That is how a woman gets out of everything,” says he, with a 
grim smile. “ But you can’t get out of one fact, at all events.” 

“ And that ?” 

“That my accident to-day compelled you to tears.” There is 
something almost malignant in the triumph of his voice as he says this. 

“ Why should I wish to get out of it ? I have already confessed 
to it. I like to be human,” says Terry. 

“ Was it only humanity?” 

“Only, — only.” She raises her charming head, and smiles full 
in his eyes. A ray of pale moonlight has caught her, and makes her 
even more beautiful than she already is. A waste of the goodly 
moon. Her eyes seem to claim his, to compel them to look at her and 
see the absolute freedom that lies in hers. She has laid one slender 
hand upon the railings near him, and Trefusis, a little angered by her 
persistent defiance of him, lays his hand upon it. 

She drags it away with passionate haste. 

“ Don’t !” says she, under her breath. 

“Not even so much ! Why, in the old days when you hated me, 
you ” 

“ Where lies the difference between those old days and these ?” she 
demands. She has turned upon him as though endurance is no 
longer possible. “ If I hated you then, why should I not hate you 
now ? And what is it to you whether I hate you or love you ? 
There,” contemptuously, “ go, go !” 

She sweeps past him, with her scornful eyes still fixed on his. 
Suddenly she lowers them, to hide a quick rush of tears, but too late. 

He has seen them. 

As she passes through the open window into the drawing-room, 
Trefusis runs down the steps to the garden below : his thoughts carry 
him so far that he does not return to the house again until the dancing 
is drawing to its close. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Now never from him do I part ; 

Hosanna evermore I cry : 

Haste his savor in my heart, 

And bid all praise him, as do I. 

As he comes into the dancing-room he pauses at the door. Mr. 
Kitts is lounging gracefully against one of the sides, talking volubly, 
and making the most open and disgraceful love (considering he doesn’t 
mean a word of it), to the maiden of bashful fifteen. Trefusis, looking 
over his head, sees Terry. 

She is standing near the opposite door- way, that leads to the drawing- 
room, with Laurence on one side of her, and a fat young man, with 
something about his hair or his collar that proclaims him a soldier, on 


606 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


the other. Both young men are talking at once, and Terry is looking 
embarrassed. 

Trefusis goes straight to her. “ Will you dance this with me?” 

“ Oh, a third claimant !” she cries, lifting her brows. “ Mr. Mor- 
land says I have promised it to him, Larry says I gave it to him. We 
are trying to find a little light somewhere.” 

“ I am really sure, Miss O’More, you gave it to me,” says the fat 
young man. 

“ I’m sure too/’ says Laurence, inflexibly. 

“ I wrote it down here,” says Morland, holding up his cuff to the 
lamplight above him, and struggling with the remarkable ciphers 
upon it. 

“ What does your cuff say, Mr. Morland ?” asks Terry. 

“ It — er — it’s got a bit mixed,” says Morland, with disgust. “ Can’t 
make it out.” 

“ Then what’s to be done ?” says Terry, with pretty anxiety. 

“ I’ll tell you,” says Trefusis. He looks at Laurence. “ Whilst 
you and Morland are making up your minds, Miss O’More will dance 
this waltz with me.” 

He passes his arm round Terry’s slender waist ; she sways towards 
him ; in an instant they are mingling with the other dancers. 

“ I told you you were masterful,” says Terry, as they stop. 

“ Yes. I remember. I don’t deny it this time.” Something in 
his tone strikes her as different, — repressed, but full of fire. There is 
a strange triumphant light in his eyes. 

“ I have made you mine for a moment, in spite of ” 

“What?” The question drops from her involuntarily. She is 
shocked by something in his face she hardly understands. 

“ In spite of you /” 

Again his arm closes round her, and again, half against her will, 
she is dancing down the long room within his arms, — arms that seem 
to clasp her closer. Coming to the door where he had seen her with 
the two young disputants, the door that opens on the drawing-room, he 
checks her, and, bringing her to a full stop, leads her through the 
drawing-room to the balcony beyond. It is a balcony that runs along 
the whole side of the house, and Trefusis hurries her on to where a 
window opens into a tiny boudoir, Fanny’s writing-room. Within, 
the soft pink light of a lowered lamp can be seen ; out here the moon, 
now at its height, is shedding a tender brilliance over all the garden. 
A silence falls on them. 

“ What a night !” says Terry, at last, in a low voice. A sudden 
sense of fear has fallen upon her. His manner surely has changed, 
and why does he not speak ? The silence has become terrible, unen- 
durable to her, before she breaks it. There was something determined, 
high-handed, a little violent almost, in the air with which he had taken 
her away from Laurence, and now 

“ That is the second time we have ever danced together,” says he, 
ignoring, as though he has not heard it, her faint remark. “ The first 
— do you remember it ?” 

Again that compelling of her memory to a past that for him at 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


607 


least is dead. A passion of anger against him, rising in her heart, 
breaks all bounds. She turns on him, her lovely eyes flashing fire into 
his, while her lips grow pale, and her whole sweet slender body is 
trembling visibly. 

" Remember ! remember !” cries she, throwing out her hands. “ Do 
you ever let me forget ? And why do you want me to remember ? 
What is it all to you ?” 

“ Something ; and you remember.” He has taken a step closer to 

her. 

“ Is that your revenge?” asks she, in a little strangled tone. “ To 
compel me to keep alive the past. How will that benefit you or me? 
Say I behaved badly to you — well, I admit it, but ” 

“What?” he interrupts her, brusquely. “You admit it, then? 
You acknowledge that you did your best to break my heart ?” He 
has caught her by both arms. 

“ Yours ! yours !” says she. Her voice fails her. Great tears rise 
in her lustrous eyes. 

She makes a faint, ineffectual struggle to loosen his hold upon her, 
and then gives in, standing crushed, beaten, with drooping head, on 
which the unkindly moon is now shedding too bright a ray. He can 
see the trouble of her soul. 

It seems to give him high courage. 

“ Even mine.” He lets one of his hands fall from her arms, but, 
still holding her, moves towards the room beyond. 

“ Come in here : I want to speak to you.” Reluctantly, involun- 
tarily, she goes with him, crossing the sill of the window and entering 
the little warm and scented room with a strange sense of newness. 

The lights are burning very dimly, and the perfume of heliotrope 
and roses mingled is sweetening the air. He turns to her as they cross 
the threshold. 

“ There are tears in your eyes,” he says. “ For what ?” 

He waits as if for an answer, but none comes. 

Only her pretty head droops lower. 

“ Ah !” he cries, “ they are for me. You dare not deny it. You” — 
he pauses, as if his breath is troubling him, and then — “you thought 
you did not love me in those old days. But you did. You know it 
now !” 

The triumph of his voice ceases. Terry presses her hands tightly 
against her breast. Anguish leaves her dumb. And what is there to 
be done, or said ? The awful knowledge, too, that tears are gathering, 
hateful betraying tears, beneath her lids, renders her almost desperate. 

If only, only she could get away before 

No time is given her, however. 

With a strong and deliberate movement Trefusis takes her into his 
arms, and, holding her to him a moment, kisses her passionately, — 
not once only. 

Pressing her hands against his breast, as if to keep him off, she 
looks up at him. The transformation in her face must be clear to him. 
Her eyes, within that pale sweet face, shine like two happy stars. 

She stands trembling before him: what does it all mean? A 


608 


AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER. 


sentence of death an hour ago, and now a glimpse of heaven ! Who 
can explain this thing? 

Her eyes are fixed on his. She would have withdrawn them if she 
could, but, as if spellbound, they rest on his. Tears rise and drown 
them, and hover on the brink of her pretty lids, yet she cannot with- 
draw her gaze. Is it true ? True ? 

Oh, yes, it is true ! 

His lips are pressed against the tear-filled eyes now, softly, adoringly. 

“ Darling, darling eyes !” says he, in a subdued but passionate 
whisper. Then — “ Terry, you love me !” 

“ Yes,” faintly. She is clinging to him. 

“ And you are going to marry me this time ?” As he holds her 
clasped close to his heart, a laugh escapes him, — a happy laugh. 
All his old reserve seems to have deserted him. Truly she has taught 
him many things. She slips her arm round his neck. A soft sweet 
sigh escapes her lips. 

“ Oh, what a long, long time you were away !” says she, brokenly. 


THE END. 


GOLF. 


609 


GOLF . 

[ATHLETIC SERIES.] 

W E get many of our fashions from the English, but in nothing else 
do we follow them so closely as in out-door sports. Nearly all 
the sports which flourish with us are of British origin, and even the 
American national game of base-ball is but an outgrowth of the old 
English game of rounders. It is quite natural, therefore, now that the 
national game of Scotland, golf, has become fashionable in England, 
that it should attract more or less attention in this country, where every 
year the fondness for out-door sports is growing stronger. 

But there are other reasons for golf becoming popular here besides 
any mere disposition on the part of our sportsmen to imitate what the 
English are doing. Golf has charms for more people than can be at- 
tracted by croquet, as it is more active than that tame and spiritless 
game, and it can be thoroughly enjoyed by men, and women too, for 
that matter, for whom tennis and base-ball and cricket are too fast and 
furious. When a man has come to “ forty year” he feels as young as 
he did at twenty so long as he sits in a rocking-chair, but he finds that 
in a tennis-court, in contest even with the lads he has taught to play 
the game, his nimbleness deserts him at most critical moments and his 
wind is gone before he has got through his second set. This is dis- 
couraging, mortifying, humiliating. But we learn that in the game of 
golf a man not given to excesses in his living can keep on improving 
in his play till threescore years and ten, if he be not bound hand and 
foot by rheumatism or some other ailment which may come when 
youth is gone. It is of record that old Tom Morris, the most famous 
of Scotch professional golfers, made the best score of his life when he 
was sixty-four, and this was after half a century devoted to the game. 

Golf is of very ancient origin, and, though there is considerable 
literature on the subject, it has not been determined where or when it 
was invented. The name is probably derived from the German word 
lcolbe , a “ club,” though some writers maintain that it is from the 
Greek word xolayos. At any rate, a game called “kolf” was played in 
Holland many centuries ago with clubs and balls somewhat similar to 
those used in Scotland. Indeed, for play in Scotland the balls and 
clubs were bought in Holland until James VI. put a prohibitive duty 
on them so as to encourage home manufacture. But as golf is played 
now, it is no more like the Dutch game of kolf than it is like billiards. 
So gifted and erudite a writer as Mr. Andrew Lang has written an essay 
on the interesting history of this game. 

There have been no definite rules formulated for the correct playing 
of the game, but the customs which prevail on the Links at St. An- 
drews — the grounds on which the game is played are called links — are 
usually regarded as authoritative. A tutor at Oxford who was intro- 
duced to the game by an enthusiastic Scotch pupil said that the game 
consisted in “ putting little balls into little holes with instruments very 
Vol. LII. — 39 


610 


GOLF. 


ill adapted to the purpose.” When this young Scotchman had become 
the foremost writer on the subject of his national game, he said that 
this definition was very good, with the addendum that the victory is to 
him who achieves this object in the least number of strokes. While 
the St. Andrews customs are followed on other links, the course is not 
the same at any other. At St. Andrews from start to finish the course 
is about four miles, and the holes, eighteen in number, are from one 
hundred and eighty to five hundred yards apart. At some places the 
course is shorter, with fewer holes, and at others longer, with more 
holes. 

In laying off* a course the holes should be located with reference to 
the topography, but it is not well to make them less than one hundred 
and fifty yards apart, as a good golfer can send his ball that far with 
one stroke. The balls, in the olden time made of feathers encased in 
leather, are now of gutta-percha and weigh about an ounce and three- 
quarters. These are painted white for ordinary use ; when, however, the 
snow is on the ground, and that circumstance does not deter the enthusi- 
astic golfer from his game, the balls are red. The holes are about four 
inches in diameter ; a circular cutter has been designed for making 
them. The instruments or clubs for striking or putting the ball are 
about a dozen in number: much ingenuity has been used in inventing 
and improving so as to make each of them effective for the special 
service required of it. 

The principal strokes are driving and putting. To drive a ball re- 
quires strength and skill, as to send this ball more than one hundred 
yards — one hundred and eighty yards is a good long drive — requires that 
it be struck with considerable force, and if it be so struck without the 
skill necessary to keep it near the line between the two holes, the 
strength will have been wasted, and the player be the worse off for the 
strength he has exerted. Putting is a very delicate operation, and con- 
sists in driving the ball into the hole when it has been nearly reached. 
Each hole has around it some prepared ground known as the “ putting- 
green when a ball has reached this vantage-ground an upright, stiff- 
shafted, wooden- or iron-headed club, known as the “putter,” is used. 
The “ putting-green” consists of the ground within twenty yards of 
the hole, and when his ball has reached this the player is entitled to 
remove all loose impediments except his adversary’s ball. It is the in- 
tention of the game that these putting-greens about the holes shall be 
free from all hazards ; but in the winter-time when there is ice or snow 
it is usually agreed upon by the players before the game begins whether 
or not it shall be removed. 

What constitutes a good score varies very much on the different 
courses. What would be a good score at one place might be very poor 
elsewhere, as in the one there might be fewer holes, the distances shorter, 
and the lay of the land less difficult. At St. Andrews Links, with its 
eighteen holes, old Tom Morris in 1885 on his sixty-fourth birthday 
went the course in eighty-one strokes. His score was as follows : 

Out: 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 4, 4, 3, 4; 

Home : 4, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 4, = 81. 


GOLF. 


611 


Thus it will be seen that it never took this veteran more than five 
strokes to go from hole to hole ; and, by the way, this was the first 
time he had ever made a score in which a six did not appear. Young 
Tom Morris, the son of the old golfer first spoken of, had, however, 
made a better score than this some time before. His score over St. 
Andrews was as follows : 

Out : 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 4, 4, 3, 3, = 37 ; 

Home : 3, 3, 4, 6, 5, 4, 5, 5, 5, = 40 = 77. 

This record stood as the best until October, 1888, when Hugh Kir- 
kaldy made this score : 

Out : 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 3, 2, 4, = 33 ; 

Home : 4, 3, 4, 4, 6, 4, 5, 6, 5, = 41 = 74. 

To show that this was not extraordinary luck, Kirkaldy nine months 
later went over the course with the following score : 

Out : 4, 5, 4, 3, 5, 5, 3, 3, 3, = 35 y 

Home : 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 4, 5, = 38 = 73. 

This, I believe, is still the best score which has been made at St. 
Andrews. 

To the uninitiated spectator golf seems slow and uninteresting. 
He sees at first nothing in the game, and it is really provoking if he 
happen to get into a golfing neighborhood to see how a whole com- 
munity can be absorbed in a game which to him seems mere foolishness. 
If his stay in such a neighborhood be very short he may go on his way 
without having contracted the fever. In that case he may never know 
what he has missed. But if he linger any length of time he is sure to 
try his hand. Then he is lost. What seemed simplicity itself before 
he had tried now appears quite difficult. As he practises he early begins 
to appreciate the possibilities of the game, and if he have any real love 
for out-door sport he is apt to continue to play so long as his opportu- 
nities last. One great advantage of the game is that the rudiments are 
easy to learn, and, these once mastered, any patient man is sure to 
improve in his play. It is not likely that a man who took to the game 
in middle life would ever be able to equal the play of those who made 
the scores just mentioned ; but so long as a man’s eyesight be good 
and his muscles steady he is apt to be encouraged by a gradual improve- 
ment in his skill, no matter how late in life he began to take part in 
this healthful sport. What deters many men from engaging in active 
sports after they have reached middle life is the constant realization 
that they have become “ duffers” in their performance. That men of 
middle age and even old men can enjoy this sport is something greatly 
in its favor. And it may be noted here that this is also true of an- 
other great Scotch game, — curling. Does this coincidence indicate that 
there is more and better comradeship between Scotchmen in the differ- 
ent stages of life than is general among men of other nationalities? 
I am inclined to the belief that this is so. And in the golf links of 
Scotland all the ordinary class distinctions are abolished, and the best 


612 


GOLF. 


man, whether he be baronet or blacksmith, is he who can go the course 
in the smallest number of strokes. But in a great measure all manly 
sports level the artificial barriers which separate the various classes. 

In the sense that we use the word in regard to cricket and base- ball, 
there are no “ professional” golfers. It is rare in Scotland, at least, 
fora match to be played in which there is not some small stake. This 
is as much a matter of course as it was in the time of our grandfathers 
for them to have a small stake up in their games of whist. But the 
rewards from such winnings are not great enough to induce a man to 
take to the playing of the game as a means of livelihood. The only 
professionals who receive any emoluments from the game are the keepers 
of the club-houses, the makers of the clubs, and the boys or “ caddies,” 
who carry the clubs for a player while he is going the course. The 
highest position a professional can reach is that of club-house keeper, 
and this is the ambition of all of them. This dignitary is something 
more than a mere custodian, as he must keep the other professionals 
and caddies under strict discipline, arrange the starting-time for the 
various matches, be a universal umpire in cases in dispute, superintend 
the men who make and repair clubs, and be ready to take a hand in 
the game when necessary. The other professionals go a round with an 
amateur for a small fee, and also act as “ coaches” and as “ caddies.” 
The good caddy, by the way, is usually something more than merely a 
carrier of his master’s clubs. He is the one person who has the privi- 
lege to give his master advice both as to the nature of the stroke best 
to be employed and the club to be used. These “ caddies” are usually 
boys, who, if they develop any great talent for the game, become pro- 
fessionals ; but as a rule they are apprenticed to some trade before they 
reach manhood, and are retired from the golfing-green. 

The dozen or so clubs used in the play are drivers of various kinds, 
spoons, and putters. Each expert has clubs specially made for him, 
and uses the one or the other according to the nature of the stroke 
desired in any position in which his ball may lie. The game is played 
by one, two, or three persons, each for himself with a separate ball ; 
by one person against two others, in which case the partners play with 
the same ball ; or two against two, when each side has one ball. When 
two play against two it is called “a foursome;” and this is a very 
favorite method of going over the course. When the weather is good 
the popular golfing-greens in Scotland have a great many matches 
going on at the same time, and the scene is an animated one. The 
keeper determines which set of players shall start first. When these 
have got under way and have passed, say, the first hole, another set 
starts off, and so on. When those in advance are slow players or have 
bad luck it not infrequently happens that the players behind catch up. 
This condition of affairs might be embarrassing, were it not that the 
etiquette of the golfing-links is well established. The slow or un- 
fortunate players make way and the others go ahead, without any dis- 
turbance or ill nature. The proper method of behavior is so well 
understood that few disagreeable things happen during the game. If 
a man develop a quarrelsome disposition he may as well give up the 
game, for in a little while it will be impossible for him to find either 


THE LAPP MAIDEN'S SONG. 


61*8 


partners or adversaries. With so many persons going the course at 
once and each one intent on his own game, it would seem natural that 
accidents should occur, and a player in advance be struck by a rapidly- 
driven ball. This does sometimes happen, but when a drive is to be 
made and there is any one between the driver and the hole he is making 
for, a warning is always given. Not to do this would be a gross breach 
of etiquette. 

Golfing is not an expensive sport, if the club which maintains a 
course does not have to pay a heavy rental. A golfer’s outfit will cost 
from twenty to thirty dollars, and his other expenses will depend upon 
the distance he lives from the course and his liberality in tipping his 
“ caddy.” There are in this country several links in the neighborhood 
of New York, and one or more in Texas. There are also several clubs 
in Canada. 

It would be quite difficult for any one to learn to play the game 
by merely learning the rules or by reading even the most practical 
article which could be written, but there is probably no neighborhood 
in the United States in which there are not several Scotchmen w T ho 
have known the game from boyhood and who would be glad to renew 
the sport of their youth, and, while driving and putting the gutta- 
percha ball from hole to hole, recall the days when they gayly trod 
their native heath. 

John Gilmer Speed. 


THE LAPP MAIDEN’S SONG. 

M Y lover he comes on the skee,* on the skee, 

And his staff o’er his head he is swinging. 

The hawk in the air is not fleeter than he, 

As he scuds o’er the snow on the skee, on the skee, 

And the wind in his wake is singing. ' . 

My lover he comes, the merry brown lad, 

From the cloud-land he speeds to our meeting. 

I hear from the heights his shouts so glad, 

And a-heigh and oho comes my merry brown lad, 

And the mountain-peaks ring with his greeting. 

Oh, hie thee, my love, to the tryst, to the tryst, 

Ere the Night quench her torches above thee ! 

Like an antlered deer dost thou cleave through the mist. 
Oh, hie thee to me, to the tryst, to the tryst, 

For I love thee, I love thee, I love thee ! 

Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 


* Norwegian snow-shoe. 


£14 


THE RUSTLERS. 


THE RUSTLERS. 

[lippincott’s notable stories.— NO. IX.*] 

I T was in Northwestern Texas in 1880. 

The cattle-thieves were very bad, the cattle-men almost in despair; 
for the rustlers were so concealed, and had found lodgement and support 
in such unexpected quarters, that a war upon them was like striking in 
the dark. 

Cattle were run off in bunches of two and three hundred, and it 
was almost an impossibility to secure an arrest, much less a conviction 
and sentence. 

Bent Austin had suffered very severely. His cattle were stolen con- 
tinually, despite his well-known nerve and fearlessness and the equally 
well understood fact that he and his men — all fellows of courage, 
honest, faithful, decent men — were always fully armed and on the alert. 

It w T as exasperating; for Bent had good reason to think he knew 
nearly every one of the thieves ; he incidentally met some one of them 
almost daily. Now it was a fellow who called himself a cattle-man, 
or the holder of some petty county office, with whom Austin had some 
small necessary dealings; now it was a professional gambler, or the 
idle and listless keeper of a flimsy pretence of a store or saloon, who 
got his mail at the same moment, or bought a cigar or took a glass of 
beer over the same bar, so close beside Bent that their elbows brushed, 
and of whom he said to himself behind his shut teeth (and the scoundrel 
saw it in his face), “This fellow was in the raid Tuesday night or, 
“That thief has been gone a week and more, helping to run that 
bunch of two hundred of my Q K cattle out of the country.” 

The situation was explosive. The climax of exasperation, for 
Austin, was reached with the stealing of a choice bunch of cows he 
had branded with a running E, his young wife’s initial. He devoted 
his whole ‘time to the stirring up of the more easy-going ranchmen: by 
making a combined and unexpected effort they elected a man for dis- 
trict judge who was honest and fearless — not to be bribed or frightened. 
Now to get a grand jury and sheriff that would indict and make arrests. 

Austin, though one of the youngest cattle-men, was also one of the 
most extensive owners and ranchers in the whole section, for both which 


* With the March number began the issue of this series of short stories, 
one of which is to appear each month during the current year. On the com- 
pletion of the series the stories will be reprinted in a small volume, and the 
royalty on the sale of this book will belong to the author of that one of the 
ten tales which receives the popular verdict. 

To determine this choice, our readers are invited to signify each month, by 
postal card addressed to the editor of LippincotVs Magazine, their opinions as to 
the merits of the short story in the last issue. Those who thus report as to each 
of the ten tales, from March to December inclusive, will receive, free of charge, 
a copy of the collected edition of “ Notable Stories.” All reports must be sent in 
before the end of the year . 


THE RUSTLERS. 


615 


reasons he was the chief mover among them now ; since in a frontier 
community dash and vigor are the most admired of traits, and young 
blood is apt to come to the fore. He was going ahead, with fearless 
determination, in what he felt sure was the right direction. 

The rustlers were alarmed ; they began to see what old Hank Pear- 
sall called “ the footwritin’ on the floor.” 

Both sides were desperate. To the one, wearied and embittered by 
impudent and almost ruinous thefts, it meant final, long-delayed justice 
upon the insolent and heretofore secure robbers, the long-wished-for 
opportunity to inflict liberal vengeance upon their spoilers. 

To the other side it came close to being life or death. They might 
get up and leave the country, some of them with families, sacrificing 
any little stake they had, or accept the uninviting alternative of a good 
long term at enforced labor for the State, not of their own selection, 
therefore probably uncongenial, and with more or less stigma attaching 
to the circumstances of its adoption ; or they must make a bold push 
to scotch the movement of the cattle-men. 

About this time there came to Bentley Austin one day, along with 
his regular mail, a letter in which he recognized the curious scrawl of 
Borne Deaderick, the man he had settled upon in his own mind as a 
sort of leader among the rustlers. 

Deaderick was a fine-looking fellow of good natural endowments, 
who had early fallen in with the bad element which fringes and is 
driven before the advancing wave of civilization, and, being disposed, 
like Lucifer, not to do things by halves, but to lead and excel and to 
adventure much, had come to be, before he was thirty, a very trouble- 
some and dangerous citizen. 

This letter was written upon a much dog-eared bit of that extraor- 
dinary, ambiguous paper which never is seen in the store, shop, or 
any of the places where such articles are bought and sold, — which, 
indeed, never appears except in some such connection as this. It was 
unsigned, and began briefly, without any address : 

“You know me and wether you want to trust me or take eny 
riskes with me or not and you can do as you pleas. I got myself to 
take care of in this buisness and Ime going to do it. The others wont 
lisen to me eny more and they can look out for therselves. If you 
will come alone — afoot — unarmed, to the little doby sine camp on the 
corner of the Broken Arrow ranch by the Red Arroyo at twelve oclock 
tonite I will do the same. I will meat you thare and give the hole 
thing away. You can have all the proof you want to finnish up cattle 
steeling in the panhandel, but I must be pertected, that’s why it got to 
be done just this way. 

“ Now you can take it or leev it. 

“ If you intend to come like I say ware your white hat up to the 
postofis this afternoon, if you dont ware the black one. 

“ You can see Ime square with you and I know you are square for 
if you was not thare isent nothing to hender you from healing yourself 
and a lot more and wiping me out tonite but I will go or stay — and I 
know you will — on the square man to man.” 

If Bentley Austin had not been intoxicated w T ith the ardor of pur- 


616 


THE RUSTLERS. 


suit, he certainly would not have acted as he did. As it was, he left 
his wife — his sweet, girlish wife, the dearest creature in the world to 
him, only a year married, only a year from the secure nest of her 
Eastern home, but finding everything interesting and picturesque, or, 
at the worst, entirely tolerable, because Bent was here — he left her in 
the evening, an unusual thing, upon a pretext of business in the town 
with a New Mexico cattle-man, saying she had better have Jack’s wife, 
who cooked at the mess-house, come over to stay with her, because he 
might not get back before early morning. 

Edith was never babyish or fussy ; but she clung to Bent with a 
sense of misgiving when he came in with his boots, spurs, and big 
white hat on, to tell her good-by ; though it seemed unreasonable, when 
he was only going in to town, and upon a not uncommon errand. 

Bent was very tender with her, and felt the first twinge of reproach 
and remorse at what he was doing. In his eager frame of mind he 
had not thought before that he did not stand alone, and that he was 
about to risk Edith’s dearest possession very recklessly. But he could 
not bring himself to relinquish the chase and turn back now. He 
kissed her, and brightened her up, and called back from the gate, — 

“ Oh, sweetheart ! there’s a letter on my desk for Cator, when he 
comes in the morning. Call his attention to it — some directions — if 
anything should happen that I stay to look at the cattle.” Then he rode 
rapidly away to town. 

At eleven o’clock Edith could no longer control the agony of dread 
and apprehension that possessed her. 

She did not seem to herself to be guessing at or fearing some evil. 
No, she knew. Her soul was torn with the foreknowledge, vague, yet 
absolutely certain, of frightful disaster, following, and about to strike, 
the husband who had left her but a few hours ago, — the playmate of 
her childhood, her girlish hero and ideal, the lover of her heart, the 
husband for whose sake and in whose dear company any country was 
good to live in, any home heaven, and whose loss would make all the 
world desolate to her through her fairest years. 

The letter ! 

She went and looked and looked at it, with goading fancies of ill 
and danger thick in her mind, till she could bear it not another minute; 
then she hurried with it over to the mess-house, where Fred Cator, the 
foreman, was smoking a last pipe. 

She spoke to him with such calmness as she could summon, and 
told him she felt uneasy, — Bentley was certainly in much danger just 
now ; to which Cator seriously agreed. She explained about the letter, 
and said, deprecatingly, but firmly, “Of course I would not open your 
letter, but you open it now ; I cannot endure my anxiety any longer ; 
I must read it — and then we will see.” 

Cator complied immediately, showing no disposition to make light 
of her fears, but rather himself infected by her deep and terrible 
apprehension. 

He unfolded two sheets : one was a letter in Bentley’s hand, en- 
closing the one from Deaderick. They read the letter first, their eyes 
racing along the lines together. 


THE RUSTLERS. 617 

They finished, and without a word read the enclosing note from 
Bentley. It ran : 

“ Dear Cator, — 

“ When it is morning, and you have read the enclosed, and I have 
not shown up, you will suppose that something is wrong. I am going, 
as Deaderick directs, to the Broken Arrow ’dobe, afoot, alone and 
unarmed. I believe he intends a square deal. But if I do not turn 
up before morning, you had better take all the boys at the house, well 
armed, and go to the ’dobe. I haven’t an idea that there will be any 
such necessity, and only write this as a precaution. 

“ Austin.” 

‘ Cator fairly groaned, “ Great God !” then added, after a pause of 
silent distress, “ That’s like Bent, and all the boys sleeping over at the 
Spring camp. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get ’em !” 

But Edith was quieter now than before. While the foreman 
hastened away to rouse the men and arm them, she went unnoted back 
to the house, and just as she was, bareheaded, thinly clad and shod, 
hurried, as well as she knew, toward the Broken Arrow ’dobe, which 
was about two miles distant, but quite out of sight, and had to be 
reached in a roundabout way, traversing two pastures, skirting some 
irregularities of the land, and crossing a creek-bed. 

It would seem to have been easy to find the way, — if she had ever 
really known it, — for the moon was at its full, and in that rare, crystal 
atmosphere was as big as a wash-tub, and piercingly brilliant. The 
whole plain was flooded with its intense splendor, interspersed with 
correspondingly black shadows, cast by any break in the surface or 
outcropping of rock, or, along the stream-bed and in little depressions, 
by cottonwoods, willows, or smaller bushes. 

But Edith had never really known the way, and this land of white 
radiance and black shadows was misleading and confusing. She began 
to feel sure that she was all astray, — which was true, — that she was 
quite as likely going away from as toward him in his awful danger. 
Her little watch showed her that it was nearly twelve, and despair 
clutched at her heart as she half ran, panting and unaware of cut and 
bleeding feet in their thin slippers. 

And Rome Deaderick was walking rapidly toward her, and toward 
the Broken Arrow ’dobe. 

A man of just Bent Austin’s height and build, with the same erect, 
half-challenging, half-careless bearing, too; and — if you thought of it, 
or had it brought to your notice — having a general likeness to him in 
every respect ; wearing, besides, the same big white cowboy hat, cowboy 
boots, and ordinary dark clothes. 

Two of the gang had supposably already met, unostentatiously, at 
the little sign camp just at the edge of the Broken Arrow range; and 
Rome Deaderick now walked toward it, rapidly but quietly, apparently 
unarmed and harmless, with a fully-loaded six-shooter in each boot-leg, 
a long keen knife in its sheath within the bosom of his flannel shirt, 
and murder in his heart ; or, as he would have told you, a determined 


618 


THE RUSTLERS. 


readiness to kill Bentley Austin, because he had been driven to the 
necessity. 

It was Bent’s life or his, for there would be more than cattle-stealing 
against him if Bent was let to go on, and set his grand juries and war- 
rants and the rest of his fixings to work, and get to ripping up things. 

And so they hurried toward each other through the silence, both 
preoccupied — almost to unconsciousness of external surroundings — by 
intent thought of Bentley Austin : the one rapt in agonized misgiving 
and solicitude for his safety, the other filled with savage and deadly 
menace of his life; the one fully ready, if of any possibility it might 
serve, to give her life for his, the other prepared, if need be, to forfeit 
his life in compassing Bentley’s death. So little heed they gave to any 
physical existence or bodily sensations that it was as though Fate had 
sent abroad disencumbered spirits and set the destroying genius and 
the guardian angel to meet upon one narrow path. 

Was it one of Fate’s grim sarcasms to send out, against armed 
murder, such a defender, — one whose only strength, armor, and weapon 
was her love? 

Suddenly Deaderick looked up, just before entering the deep shadow 
of some cottonwoods; when, rapidly approaching him in the brilliant 
light on the other side, he saw for an instant a slight young woman, 
with fair hair that caught the moonlight, her face pale, anguished, and 
streaming with tears, her arms outstretched to him ; and the next 
moment, with a choking cry, she lay upon his breast in the darkness, 
weeping, shaking, her arm about him, her breath coming in little irreg- 
ular gasps upon his neck. 

She laid her face upon his ; her hot tears streamed over his cheek. 

“ Ah-h ! — Ah-h ! — Ah-h !” she sobbed, in long, quivering sobs, 
holding him convulsively to her with the soft, clasping arm. She 
caught his free hand in her own little tender one, held it against her 
panting heart with a gesture of unspeakable tenderness and endearment, 
and kissed it over and over, with such piteous, inarticulate sounds as a 
grieving mother utters over her child. Lifting her face again, she 
pressed her soft, wet cheek against first one and then the other of his, 
and kissed his hair, his brow, his eyes, his mouth, with her sweet, 
warm, trembling lips. 

“ Oh, darling — my darling — my life! You are all I have! I 
cannot ever bear it any more for you to run such risks alone. Oh, 
if it must be, let me go too. 

“ Ah, dear God, if they should kill you and leave me alive! 

“ Oh, Bentley, don’t do it any more ! I can’t bear it — don’t ask me. 
It’s my life you’re risking as well as yours — I couldn’t live if they 
murdered you ! 

“ The letter — the letters We read them, and I know all 

about it. 

“But oh, think what I’ve been bearing — been trying to bear — for 
months ! To sit and think of the head, the hands, the form, that are 
dearer to me than my life, in danger, — moving about in the day and 
the night maybe close, all the time, to cruel dangers ! Ah-h !” (with 
more pitiful, trembling sobs.) 


THE RUSTLERS. 


619 


u Your eyes, darling, that are my light — I see them looking for 
help, and none is there! This face that is heaven to me — white, 
bleeding, terrible ; this breast, my shelter — wounded ! Every drop of 
your blood, and every atom of your flesh, that is all so sweet and dear 
and precious to me — I see it beset — hurt — shot — stabbed — poured out ! 

oh-h-h r 

She bent her head downward, clutching him close with that tender, 
clinging arm, pressing her face hard in upon his breast, and fell to 
smoothing and kissing his hand again, — the breast where that long, 
keen knife lay hidden, — the hand that had been nerved and ready to 
drive that knife home. 

u Oh, not any more, my darling ! Never, never again ! We will go 
away, or — anything. The cattle, the ranch, let them all go, anyway. 
What can they be to me without you ?” 

She stopped suddenly, seeming to be struck for the first time, in 
her excited rush of impassioned feeling and utterance, by the strange- 
ness of his not speaking a word to her. 

He had held her instinctively, from the time she threw herself upon 
his breast, w T ith his arm about her. Now, with what must have been 
a sort of inspiration, he said, softly and quietly, “ Sh-h,” and laid his 
hand over her face. 

He thought swiftly of Bentley Austin, nearing the Broken Arrow 
camp, or already there ; of the almost certain death waiting for him 
there, the agony and shipwreck of this poor, tender heart, fluttering 
upon his own in such mistaken security. 

How was he to do it ? And yet it must be quickly done, if she 
was to be saved. 

He braced himself with a greater effort than he had ever done in 
all his desperate career, — a career in which he had often enough con- 
fronted deadly and imminent peril. He pressed his hand down over 
her face to hold it firmly against him, and drew the arm around her 
closer, then said, as coldly as he could for his pounding heart and 
shortened breath, but with all the gentleness he was master of, — 

“ Mrs. Austin — no, please, ma’am, be still, don’t be scared, nor 
scream, nor run away; that’s right — that’s right — Bentley ain’t here: 
he’s back on the Broken Arrow trail. You’re right, he is in danger. 
You don’t know me ; but — I’m a friend. Go right back to the ranch 
house, now; and I’ll go quick and help him if he needs it. 

“ Yes — yes — I will ! There — there. Oh, don’t — don’t — I will ; 
I swear to you — so help me God, — I’ll run every step of the way ; and 
I’ll see him safely out of it — or die trying !” 

He set her on the homeward trail, and turned to his mission. 

Himself was so transformed, his original purpose so strangely in- 
verted, that it seemed another man hastening upon another errand. 

He went, — went swiftly and unhesitatingly, like a man alert and 
intent upon a present push ; but in a sense this was not so. His 
thoughts turned back ; not forward to the instant issue of life or death, 
to be settled inside of ten minutes, hand to hand, with pistols and 
knives. He was as yet absolutely asleep to the real crisis. 

A nestling head was upon his breast ; shaken sobs and inarticulate 


620 


THE RUSTLERS. 


murmurs of love and distress were in his ears, with broken words of 
pleading for Bentley Austin’s life ; streaming tears, not his own, were 
upon his face, a slight, clasping arm about his neck, the eager caress 
of soft, trembling lips touched his hand, his hair, his brow, his eyelids, 
and his cheek. 

He did not reason or reflect ; he only felt. He had never any more 
known or conceived of such a creature, such an emotion, such tender 
and holy relations as these, than a blind man the beauties of sky and 
earth. 

Possibilities of good, capacity of heart and soul, which might have 
lifted him as high as this, had been born with him, and had remained 
with him, little developed, warped, blighted, almost unrecognized amid 
his evil environments and dubious pursuits and diversions. Now they 
seemed — at the kindling recollection of those rapt caresses, the sudden 
sight, recognition, and realization of such a life and such a love — to 
spring suddenly into their completeness, to expand at once beneath that 
powerful and divine touch, and fill his whole being with a tumult of 
emotions, vast, vague, not understood, but lofty and uplifting. 

When Rome Deaderick got to the Broken Arrow camp, Bent 
Austin was on his feet, with his back to the wall. Alone, unarmed, 
cut off from help, he saw and faced his situation, plucky and resolute 
to the last, apparently intending to die with as much expense of diffi- 
culty and danger to his assassins as possible. 

The two rustlers stood over against him, like wolves ready to 
spring, but waiting a word, a motion, a pretext, and checked yet a 
little from breaking headlong into God’s temple by its occupant’s 
brave and unshaken regard. 

His eyes were fixed boldly on them ; and they watched him as 
closely. He was saying something, in a cool, steady tone, though with 
inward despair, to the effect that they certainly didn’t mean to do him 
any violence — they could hardly afford to ; when in his heart he knew 
they felt actually forced to put him out of the way, now they had 
shown him their colors; they stood, as it were, committed to his death. 

Rome Deaderick stepped into the room abruptly, his face sharp- 
drawn and perfectly white, his eyes intensely black, his breathing un- 
controllably loud and fitful, — a man at the finish of a hard-fought foot- 
race. He stood facing his two former partners, and partially in front 
of Austin. 

“ Defend yourself ; I’m with you,” he said, putting a cocked pistol 
into Bentley’s hand, and covering one of the rustlers with his other 
weapon. 

It was all confusion. There was no time to question, though both 
Bent and his assailants were dumfounded. 

The two rustlers reached for their pistols ; Deaderick fired ; the 
little lamp went out instantly, leaving the room in darkness and full 
of smoke. 

The shot told, for one of the rustlers fell, with an oath. 

Bent had fired almost simultaneously with Deaderick; and each 
sent several more shots into the darkness, out of which also came flashes 
of fire and pistol-balls. 


THE RUSTLERS. 


621 


Bent remained unhurt; but now Deaderick fell, brushing against 
him as he went down, with a groan. 

The door opened and shut violently, and there were rapid, retreating 
footsteps on the outside. 

All was still in the room. With his cocked pistol in one hand, 
and his back toward the solid wall, Bent struck a match and lighted 
the lamp. 

The man Deaderick had shot was dead ; the other one had appar- 
ently run away. Deaderick lay as he had fallen, bleeding terribly 
from a wound in his breast. It was all like a fantastic dream. And 
yet there could be no question of the man’s sincerity ; it looked as if 
he had proved it with his life. 

Austin, still on his guard against another attack from without, knelt 
down and examined Deaderick’s wound. It was through the breast, 
and, he thought, fatal ; but he stanched the bleeding as best he could, 
and poured a little whiskey from the man’s own flask through his 
whitening lips. While he was watching for some sign of life, Fred 
Cator’s voice called from the outside, — 

“ Hello in there ! Is Bent Austin there ? Here’s seven of us, well 
armed, for him !” 

“Come in alone, quick, Fred,” answered Bentley; and Cator im- 
mediately came in with Edith, leaving his men standing at the door. 

Bentley held up a warning hand to Edith ; and, strongly constrain- 
ing herself, she came quietly up to him, and looked down at the 
wounded man. 

“He came in and put himself in front of me. He was killed 
instead of me, — defending me,” said her husband, in a voice that 
trembled. “ I don’t understand it.” 

As he said it, Deaderick’s face relaxed a little from its fast-fixing 
rigidity; his eyes opened, and he looked up full in Edith’s face, which 
bent over him, melting and illumined with pitying tenderness. Then 
he glanced over at Austin. 

“ I got in in time — Mrs. Austin — -just in time,” he said : “ he’s here 
— all right and whole.” 

His gaze went back again to Edith’s face, and remained there. She 
took up his hand, as if to speak to him; but he smiled a little, looking 
at the two hands clasped thus, and spoke himself : 

“ I’m done for. That ball of Jim’s went clean through me. But 
I ain’t sorry. 

“ I’ve not been good. No — no — no ” his voice, low and reflect- 

ive, dropping slowly at each monosyllable to a still lower, deeper gravity, 
“ I’ve been bad. But there’s a way, somehow, for it to be made all right. 

“ I’m going now — right away — the’ ain’t hardly a minute of time 
— after so many years. But I ain’t afraid. I’m glad I found out 
about it — that I saw it once, and — and knew about it, before I had 
to go. 

“ When I’ve sort of squared things up, someway, for all my sins 
here,” his eyes still dwelling on her face, “they’ll let me into heaven ; 
and I know now what it’s like.” 


Alice MacGowan . 


622 


PROGRESS IN LOCAL TRANSPORTATION. 


PROGRESS IN LOCAL TRANSPORTA TION. 

I N all progressive movements affecting public affairs, it is impossible 
to avoid disturbing to some extent existing conditions and vested 
interests; and in no class of improvements is this fact more manifest 
than in that relating to transportation. 

Hence it was that early laws were passed conferring upon such cor- 
porations the right of eminent domain ; first for roads, then for canals, 
soon after for railroads, still later for pipe-lines, and lastly for electrical 
purposes. 

No laws could be framed to provide for the prospective and unde- 
veloped forces which still slumbered in the occult sciences, but as soon 
as they were evolved and the utility of their applications proven, laws 
were enacted to meet the emergencies and to establish equities between 
the public, the corporation, and the individual. In this readjustment, 
however, it has frequently happened that existing corporations, fearing 
an infraction of their presumed rights, have resorted to every artifice, 
trick, or device imaginable to prevent the passage of general laws 
which would enable other common carriers to provide additional and 
much needed facilities. This experience is so general, and withal so 
human, that it is unnecessary to specify particular instances. It is 
based upon selfishness as well as ignorance, and it is believed that a 
broad general view of our experience in matters of this kind will serve 
to point the moral and illustrate the narrowness and folly of pursuing 
this policy. 

While it is a generally accepted transportation maxim that facilities 
create traffic, many companies act as if it were quite the contrary. 

Those communities are most prosperous which have the greatest 
facility of movement. This results from competition, whether by land 
or water, and it has hitherto* been shown that these are mutually bene- 
ficial. Railways are wholly dependent upon population for their exist- 
ence, and the larger the centres become, especially if manufacturing, the 
greater will be the revenues for the carriers. 

It is a natural conclusion to suppose that if one company or corpora- 
tion possesses all the franchises in its line in any place, any concessions 
made to another company in the same business would result in a loss 
to both, as it would simply mean a division of patronage. This is the 
view so prevalent among even enlightened and experienced investors 
and financiers, yet it is far from being generally true. A single com- 
pany monopolizing the transportation of any locality may so restrict 
and congest the place as greatly to retard its growth and curtail its own 
revenue, merely from its lack of accommodation. 

Increased facilities must be provided as a city grows, not only by 
extending the existing lines into the suburbs, — as that often merely 
extends the distance which the long rider must be carried, without in- 

* See the Engineering Magazine , April, 1892: “ Do Water-Ways benefit 
Railroads ?” by the writer. 


PROGRESS IN LOCAL TRANSPORTATION. 


623 


creasing the revenue, on the contrary rather reducing it, — but by pro- 
viding more cars moving at greater velocity, that the additional popula- 
tion may reach the business centres in the same time and with as great 
convenience as in the earlier days when the city was smaller, else its 
circulation will be restricted and its growth be retarded. 

No more striking instance of this is known to the writer than that 
existing in Philadelphia, where for a score of years past it has been 
the privilege of the sterner sex to buy a “strap” privilege in a street- 
car or standing-room outside, or else accept the alternative and walk. 
In the mornings and evenings the intermediate corners of streets be- 
tween termini will show many weary forms waiting for an opportunity 
to obtain even a foothold upon a passing car, and often in vain. Thou- 
sands of people are obliged to walk because they cannot ride, and yet 
the surface roads appear to be opposed to the granting of any additional 
facilities, for fear of loss of revenue. 

It is not a case of division of patronage, but of increased revenue, 
because of the facility which a rapid-transit system would afford them* 
for filling and emptying their overcrowded cars more than once in a 
trip, by getting rid of the “ long riders” and substituting the short ones, 
thus bringing “grist to their mill,” as may be readily shown by experi- 
ence wherever it has been tried, and for manifest reasons. 

The new system will also derive a handsome profit from the patron- 
age of the many persons who are now obliged to walk, in consequence 
of their inability even to enter the insufficient cars provided at certain 
hours of the day, when the travel is heaviest. 

But why deal in generalities or what may appear to many mere 
sophistry ? Let us turn at once to some of the facts and note the results 
of experience. 

In 1862, in the city of London, with its excellent pavements, nu- 
merous “ busses,” and a population of about 2,800,000, the General 
Omnibus Company carried annually only about 41,068,000 passengers 
at an average fare of seven cents, while the cost to the company was 
six and a half cents. The ratio of riders to the population was 14.6. 
The Underground road was started in 1864, but it was some years 
before enough mileage was completed to bring it into general use. In 
1871, tramways, or street-cars, were added, with the paradoxical result 
that instead of diminishing the travel of the omnibus company it 
rapidly increased, and, although the fares were reduced, the cost was 
likewise reduced to three and a half cents, and the company paid twelve 
and a half per cent dividend. For nearly ten years the traffic of the 
“ busses” remained nearly constant at about 42,000,000, but after the 
opening of the “competing” lines it increased so rapidly that in twenty 
years it had nearly doubled, being over seventy-five millions, or very 
nearly the same as the traffic of the Metropolitan, which was nearly 
seventy-six millions; while in addition the “District” (also under- 
ground) carried thirty-eight and a half millions, and the “tramways” 
one hundred and nineteen and a quarter millions, giving an aggregate in 
1884 of 308,821,000 as compared with 42,649,000 in 1864. 

That this growth of traffic was not due to increase of population 
will appear at once, for the growth in the latter was but 36 per cent, in 


624 


THE WIND AND THE TREE 


twenty years, or 1.8 per cent, per annum, while that of the traffic was 
470 per cent., or 23J per cent, per annum. The ratio of patronage to 
population had risen from 14.6 to 77. 

But even this increase would be slight, compared with the pulsation 
of so active a metropolis as New York, where we “ count time by heart- 
throbs.” The traffic there is enormous, and now exceeds 410,000,000 
annually, nearly evenly divided between the surface and elevated com- 
panies, while from 1875 to 1878, or prior to the opening of the ele- 
vated railroads, the percentage of increase in population was greater 
than that in traffic, showing that the street-car system had reached the 
limit beyond which citizens could not afford to ride. The opening of 
the Manhattan Elevated roads stimulated the patronage of the surface 
lines to such an extent that in a comparatively few years it had increased 
over fifty millions. These are but a few of the instances that might be 
cited to prove the general assertion that elevated railroads do not inter- 
fere with the patronage or revenues of surface lines, nor injuriously 
trespass upon their franchises, but that they invariably stimulate and 
increase their, traffic to the benefit of the existing companies as well as 
of the general public. Indirectly they augment the business of a city, 
add to its revenues by the large appreciation in the values of real estate 
incident to their construction, and hence provide greater revenue for 
municipal improvements without increase of tax-rate. 

Any city failing to realize these advantages, and to encourage them 
where they are offered by private capital and without cost to the city, 
certainly deserves to be left in the competition for trade which is now 
so prominent a characteristic of this progressive age ; and any muni- 
cipality which permits its transportation or any other public service to 
fall into the hands of a single corporation handicaps itself and its citi- 
zens in the race for supremacy. 

Lewis M. Haupt. 


THE WIND AND THE TREE. 


T HE lover Wind is away, away, 

Leaving a sigh for the lady Tree; 
But his heart is out on the golden bay, 
Trampling the perilous floors of sea. 


The lady Tree from her lonely hill 

Sends a sigh through the world to roam 
The Wind’s wild way at the Wind’s sweet will ; 
But her heart abides at home, at home. 

O lover Wind and lady Tree, 

How the old sun must laugh at you, 

Seeing all foolish things must be 
Till the round world is made anew ! 

Bliss Carman. 




























e 





HOW THE LIGHT CAME. 


625 


HOW THE LIGHT CAME. 

I AM going to Ste. Anne this morning because I want to see the place 
regarding which so many strange stories have been related to me 
by some of the good people of Quebec. 

This is the substance of what they have told me of the little church 
down the river that is so famous for its miracles. 

Ste. Anne was the mother of Mary the mother of the Nazarene. 
According to tradition, her body was brought to Gaul by St. Lazarus 
and placed in the church of Apt, where some time afterwards it was 
discovered by the Emperor Charlemagne. Since that time miracles 
without number have been wrought at the church of Ste. Anne of Apt. 
Many sanctuaries have been dedicated to this saint. Among the most 
celebrated is Ste. Anne d’Auray. For centuries multitudes of the 
faithful have made pilgrimages there, and thousands of the afflicted 
have been healed. 

In the seventeenth century some Breton mariners who were sailing 
up the St. Lawrence met with a fierce storm and were in danger of 
shipwreck. They prayed to Ste. Anne and vowed that if she would 
save them, they would build a sanctuary wherever they first landed. 
The storm suddenly passed over, and the grateful sailors went ashore 
some twenty miles below Quebec, and built a wooden chapel, which 
they named Ste. Anne de Beaupr6 (Bowsprit). As early as 1665 it 
became famous in the records of the church. From that time until 
the present pilgrimages have been made from all parts of Canada to 
this spot. Wonderful miracles are said to have been performed : the 
dumb have spoken, the deaf have heard, the lame have walked, and 
the sick and dying have been cured of their diseases. In a single year 
over eighty thousand pilgrims have visited the shrine of Ste. Anne, and 
three thousand five hundred masses been celebrated. Great efficacy in 
the healing of the afflicted is attributed to the waters of the holy well 
that is close by the church. 

It is half-past five in the morning as I pass through the market- 
place at the base of the citadel on my way to the steamboat that is ad- 
vertised to sail for the village of Ste. Anne at six o’clock. The early 
habitan is unloading his peas, potatoes, and other garden -stuffs, and 
making of them as brave display as he can on rude wooden benches. 
Women, basket on arm and prayer-book in hand, are buying their 
daily household supplies. Thus early do they come that they may be 
in time to drop in on their way home to one or other of the many 
churches whose musical bells are calling the faithful to morning pray- 
ers. Almost all the rest of the city is still asleep. In the market two 
or three dingy taverns and cafes are open, but even here is no life, no 
hurry, no bustle. The people move about as if they had very little to 
do and all of time in which to do it. 

The boat leaves Quebec every morning, carrying pilgrims to the 
shrine of La Bonne Ste. Anne. She is a grimy, double-decked side- 
Vol. L1L— 40 


626 


HOW THE LIGHT CAME. 


wheel steamer. There are about a hundred passengers this morning. 
They come to the steamboat-landing singly and in family groups, on 
foot and in carts and caliches. What a motley gathering ! What queer 
types of humanity do I see as I lean on the rail and watch them pass 
up the gang-plank ! Here a cripple with legs so twisted and bent 
under him that he walks on his hands, swinging his body between his 
arms. There a robust and motherly woman and a pale, sad-faced boy. 
They carry two baskets that I doubt not contain a goodly lunch, and 
the boy has a prayer-book under his arm. Next a priest with three- 
cornered hat, flowing black robes, and dangling cross of gold, — a well- 
fed, gray-haired, double-chinned, benevolent-looking old man, rotund 
of body and cheerful of countenance. His finger goes to his hat in- 
cessantly in response to the cordial greetings of the pilgrims. Here 
comes a family that evidently includes three generations, — an old man 
on crutches, his son and son’s wife, and several children. After them 
comes a solitary nun, with downcast eyes and modest mien. Then 
another and another priest; solemn men are they and gloomy-visaged, 
their eyes bent on the ground and their hands crossed over their prayer- 
books. One would think that a religion such as theirs, a calling with 
such rewards, and the hourly contemplation of a future of eternal hap- 
piness for themselves and for those whose feet they guide in paths of 
righteousness, would light up their faces with joy and make them the 
most cheerful of mortals. Is it the sins of men and weaknesses of 
women that shadow their faces and make their hearts heavy ? Perhaps. 

The last two passengers are just in time, for the hawsers are about 
to be cast off. The man is a mechanic, if gait and hardened hands 
and Sunday clothes are to be taken in evidence. In his arms he car- 
ries a fragile child, probably ten years of age. She is poorly but 
neatly dressed in black. A halo of golden hair crowns the head that 
rests on her father’s shoulder. The pallor of the face and the bright 
spots on the sunken cheeks plainly indicate the ravages of that hopeful, 
hopeless disease, consumption. She is cheerful withal, and she smiles 
up into her father’s face and thanks him as he finds a chair for her in 
a shady corner of the boat and gently places her in it. She doubtless 
comes from some dingy house in some narrow alley in the old city, and 
the bright sunshine and the sight of the green woods and golden fields 
of grain that line the banks of the river will be as a glimpse of a better 
world to her and will give her a pleasure that she seldom enjoys. I 
take a seat on a bench close to her, that I may have the pleasure of see- 
ing the evidences of this sweet-faced girl’s enjoyment. Her great blue 
eyes are fixed on some object on the shore. She seems to be looking at 
something very far away. A man comes and stands in front of her, 
but she does not move her head. She still seems to have her gaze fixed 
on the same object, although to see it she would have to possess the 
power of seeing through the man. A groping motion of her hand in 
search of the arm of her chair, and now I understand. 

The girl is blind. 

Her father bends lovingly over her, gently brushes the hair back 
from her forehead, and asks her if she does not feel better. The child 
looks up at him and tells him that she feels much better already. She 


HOW THE LIGHT CAME. 


627 


says, “ Don’t worry about me, father ; cheer up. Don’t you know I’ll 
be well to-morrow ?” And she surely believes that she will, for is she 
not going to the little church where miracles are wrought? Are not 
the waters of the holy well for the healing of such as she? And is 
she not going to pray, oh, so earnestly, to good Ste. Anne, to make her 
well and strong again ? 

The rough but gentle old father tries, for the child’s sake, to look 
cheerful, but he knows that the next time he makes a pilgrimage down 
the river he will be alone. 

I talk with him, and he tells me the child’s story. When her 
mother died, three years ago, the little one took the mother’s place in 
the management of the household affairs. There were only herself 
and her father, and she was alone all day when he was at work. In a 
wonderful way she attended to everything that was necessary for their 
comfort. She was cheerful always, and never complained of loneli- 
ness, but cheered her tired old father with her bright sayings, comfort- 
ing words, and hopeful plans for the future. Then, as he expressed 
it, “ the light was taken from her.” Almost two years ago that was, 
and after that consumption began. But she never murmured, and, 
until recently, attended to all her duties almost as well as she had done 
before she became blind. The weaker she grew in body, the stronger 
became her faith in her ultimate recovery if she could only visit the 
shrine of Ste. Anne. This visit, long promised, had been delayed for 
one reason and another. They were poor, very poor, and the loss of 
wages and the cost of the trip were much to them. 

After the man has told me this much, we go over and sit down 
beside the child. She nestles up close to her father, and, taking one of 
his hands between her own, asks him to tell her of what he sees ; and 
he tells her of the swiftly-flowing waters of the great river, of the 
golden-tipped waves that flash back the glories of the morning sun. 
In words tenderly spoken, he paints for her a picture with boats and 
ships and river in the foreground, and, beyond, fields of ripening grain 
and banks carpeted with wild flowers of rainbow hues, and over all 
the bluest of blue skies and brightest of bright sunshine. 

She listens breathlessly, her face brightens, she seems to see all that 
he sees, and she clasps his hand tighter as he goes on to tell of the 
woods and waterfalls, the hills and hamlets, that seem to pass us like a 
mighty sunlit panorama. 

“ Oh, father, I am so happy because the light will come to-morrow, 
and I shall see all that you see now, and no more shall I have to call 
you 6 eyes of mine.’ The good Ste. Anne will hear my prayers. I 
shall be stout and strong, and I shall see again, and be able to help you 
as I used to do.” 

“ Yes, daughter,” the father says, as he caresses her golden locks, 
“God is good, and Ste. Anne de Beaupr6 does many great and blessed 
things for the poor and afflicted. Yes, surely, my little one, the light 
will come.” 

I leave them together, and do not see them again for a time. We 
steam past Montmorency Falls, a great sheet of water that thunders 
down two hundred feet over a cliff of scarred and jagged rocks. For 


628 


HOW THE LIGHT CAME 


nearly twenty miles we go down with the tide along the shores of the 
Isle of Orleans, an island that divides the river for a time into two 
streams of about equal volume. 

Three-fourths of the pilgrims are women, well dressed most of them, 
and apparently of culture. From the moment the boat starts from 
Quebec they begin to read their prayer-books or count their beads. On 
the main deck is a little carpeted room about the size of an ordinary 
pilot-house. On the walls are cheap pictures of saints, and in the cor- 
ner is a parlor organ. I am wondering for what purpose the room is 
used, when the rotund old priest enters and takes a seat. A latticed 
wooden screen is brought in and placed beside his chair. Soon a 
woman comes in, and, after bowing, kneels on the floor. The priest 
places his ear against the screen, shuts his eyes, and listens to her con- 
fession. With whispered word and benedictory wave of hand, he dis- 
misses her. Next comes a man who looks as if he would cut a throat 
or scuttle a ship for a dollar. His tale is soon told. Possibly he has 
not many sins to confess ; probably he confesses only a part of them. 
He makes way for others, one at a time, and I notice that all go in 
looking solemn and penitent and come out with brightened faces and 
an air of relief. 

All this is in sight of the passengers, for a door and two windows 
are wide open. The last I see enter is the little girl with the halo of 
golden hair. Her father carries her in his arms. I am glad that it is 
the benevolent old priest who is to minister to her. She surely has but 
little evil to confess, unless poverty be a sin and suffering a crime. In 
a whisper soft and low she tells her tale, whatever it may be, and the 
good father arises and, after speaking to her a moment, lays his hands 
upon her head and blesses her ; and now he lifts her up and, carrying 
her to the door, lays her in her father’s arms. 

We have arrived at the wharf of Ste. Anne, and I hurry ashore 
with the throng. Passing up the one straggling street of the village, 
I find that every house is a hotel, and every hotel has a sign, bearing 
the name of some saint, over its doors. A man hands me a card, on 
which I find printed 


St. Denis Cafe. 

prix modLres. 

Une visite est sollicit6e. 


So I go to the St. Denis for lunch. I find that prix moderes is all 
right, but the quality of the food is dreadful, and I can understand 


HOW THE LIGHT CAME . 


629 


why the proprietor says “ une visite est sollicit^e.” He solicits only 
one visit, knowing that it would be useless to solicit any one to try the 
place twice. 

I go over to the church. It is a very handsome building, and 
would probably seat fifteen hundred people. Two priests are officiating. 
One is exhibiting relics of Ste. Anne, including what is said to be part 
of the bone of one of her fingers, and it is claimed that the venera- 
tion of these relics cures diseases. The walls of the church are cov- 
ered with medallions and paintings representing incidents in the life of 
Christ, and also scenes depicting the miraculous cures of pilgrims to 
Ste. Anne’s. In racks are exhibited the crutches left by those who have 
been cured here. There are probably over five hundred crutches in the 
church. I see also bandages and rags cast aside by those who claim to 
have been cured of loathsome diseases, and here is a case full of the 
colored glasses and ear-trumpets of the partially blind and deaf, who 
needed them not after a visit to the shrine of Ste. Anne. 

I get a seat near the altar. The pilgrims kneel during the whole 
service. They certainly are in earnest. Above the monotone of the 
priests arises ever and anon the audible prayer of some miserable 
cripple, some human wreck, crying in anguish, “O good Ste. Anne, 
help us !” 

On her knees, and leaning against the altar rail, is the little girl 
with the halo of golden hair. The blue veins on her temples are more 
distinct, and the spots on her hollow cheeks are a deeper red. Her 
clasped hands are stretched out toward the altar, and her great blue 
eyes seem to be gazing on something far beyond it. Her attitude is 
that of earnest supplication. She is praying the good Ste. Anne to 
bring the light. Her father, close beside, has his arm around her. 
The expression of his face is very sad; shadows of doubt and despair 
are there, and tears fill his eyes. But there is no sadness in the face 
of the child. It is radiant with expectancy and bright with the bright- 
ness that hope and faith bring. 

The priest now turns his face to the people, while holding some- 
thing aloft in his hands, and all the people bow reverently, while a 
wave of whispered supplication, like the sound of a summer breeze 
passing over a field of ripened grain, fills all the aisles and spreads out 
among the multitude beyond the church’s walls. 

Suddenly the child at the altar rail rises to her feet, and, throwing 
her arms above her head as if reaching for something above, cries, 
u Oh, father, father ! The light is coming, father !” 

Her father catches her as she falls faint and limp into his arms, and, 
hurriedly pushing his way through the throng, bears her out into the 
churchyard and tenderly lays her on a grassy mound under the trees. 
Water from the holy well is poured on her face by a young priest. 
For a moment she revives. She clasps her arms around the neck of 
her father, who is bending over her. A smile of joy and peace illumes 
her pallid face as she kisses him. Her arms relax and fall on her 
breast, and her head sinks back on her father’s arm. 

The Light has come. 

J. Armoy Knox . 


630 


AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 


AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN 

T HE world at large is a most intricate machine, and parts viewed 
separately give no hint of their importance to what appear quite 
independent objects. Man may dissociate without destroying, but, 
when he does, his constant attention must then take the place of the 
acts that Nature designed other conditions of life should perform. The 
isolated plant, for instance, is destroyed by insects unless we protect it 
by a glass covering or a poison-bath : Nature gave it to the birds to 
protect the plant, and in so doing find food for themselves. This law 
of interdependence is made very plain in the case of a modern garden 
or the trim lawns of a large city, and in less degree applies to towns 
and villages. The caterpillar nuisance that requires collaring shade- 
trees with cotton-wool to protect their foliage illustrates this; and what 
an example is a modern garden filled to overflowing with exotic plants ! 
An all-important feature is wanting, — birds ; for, except sparrows, we 
have none, and these are worse than useless. 

It was not always so, and the cause of the deplorable change is not 
hard to find. Whenever we chance, in our wanderings, to come upon 
some long-neglected corner of colonial times, there we will find the 
bloom and birds together. I have said “ neglected not quite that, 
for there was bloom, and the birds are excellent gardeners. 

Let me particularize. My garden is a commonplace affair, with 
the single innovation of a barrel sunk in the ground to accommodate 
a lotus, — so commonplace, indeed, that no passer-by would notice it ; 
and yet during a single summer afternoon I have seen within its bound- 
aries fifteen species of birds. At that hottest hour of the midsummer 
day, two P.M., while looking at the huge pink blossoms of the classic 
lotus, my attention was called to a quick movement on the ground, as 
if a rat ran by. It proved to be an oven-bird, that curious combina- 
tion of a thrush and sandpiper, and yet neither, but a true warbler. 
It peered into every nook and corner of the shrubbery, poised on the 
edge of the sunken lotus-tub, caught a wriggling worm that came to 
the surface of the water, then teetered along the fence and was gone. 
Soon it returned, and came and went until dark, as much at home as 
ever in the deep recesses of unfrequented woods. As the sun went down, 
the bird sang once with all the spring-tide ardor, and brought swiftly 
back to me many a long summer’s day ramble in the country. It is some- 
thing to be miles away from home while sitting on your own door-step. 

Twice a song-sparrow came, bathed in the lotus-tubs, and, when 
not foraging in the weedy corners, sang its old-fashioned song, now so 
seldom heard within town limits. This bird gave me two valuable 
hints as to garden management. Water is a necessity to birds as well 
as to any other form of life, and shelter is something more than a 
mere attraction. Was it not because the birds happened to be pro- 
vided with them to-day that I had, as I have had the summer long, 
more birds than my neighbors? 


AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 


631 


How seldom do we see the coral honeysuckle, and how generally 
the trumpet-creeper has given place to exotic vines of far more striking 
bloom, but, as will appear, of less utility ! If the old-time vines that 
I have mentioned bore less showy flowers, they had at least the merit 
of attracting humming-birds, that so grandly rounded out our com- 
plement of summer birds. These feathered fairies are not difficult to 
see, even though so small, and, if so inclined, we can always study 
them to great advantage. They become quite tame, and in the old- 
fashioned gardens were always a prominent feature by reason of their 
numbers. They are not forever on the wing, and when preening their 
feathers let the sunshine fall upon them, and we have emeralds and 
rubies that cost nothing, but are none the less valuable because of this. 
In changing the botanical features of our yards we have had but one 
thought, gorgeous flowers ; but was it wise to give no heed to the loss 
of birds as the result? I fancy there are many who would turn with 
delight from formal clusters of unfamiliar shrubs, however showy, to 
a gooseberry hedge or a lilac thicket with song-sparrows and a cat- 
bird hidden in its shade. We have been unwise in this too radical 
change. We have abolished bird-music in our eagerness for color, 
gaining a little, but losing more. We have paid too dear, not for a 
whistle, but for its loss. But it is not too late. Carry a little of the 
home forest to our yards, and birds will follow it. 

And what of the old-time arbors, with the straggling grape-vine, 
and perhaps a rude wren-box perched at the entrance? Is there better 
shade than the grape-vine offers, a sweeter odor than its bloom af- 
fords, or more charming music than the song of the restless house- 
wren ? Certainly there have been no improvements upon these fea- 
tures of the old-time garden : yet how seldom do we see them now ! 
We must travel far, too, to find a martin-box. As a matter of fact, 
the bluebird, wren, and martin might, if we chose, be restored to the 
very hearts of our largest towns. People have no more terror for 
them than for the English sparrow, and they can all hold out against 
these piratical aliens, if we would consider their few and simple 
needs. The wrens need but nesting-boxes with an entrance through 
which the shoulders of a sparrow cannot pass; and the bluebirds 
and martins require only that their houses be closed during the winter 
and very early spring, or until they have returned from their winter 
quarters. This is easily done, and when the birds are ready to oc- 
cupy the accommodations provided for them they will take possession 
and successfully hold the forts against all intruders. This is not a 
fancy merely, suggested as the basis of experimentation, but the result 
of the experience of several people in widely-separated localities. I 
vividly recall visiting at a house in a large town, where purple martins 
for more than fifty years had occupied boxes placed upon the eaves of 
a one-story kitchen. 

While stress is laid upon the importance of regaining the presence 
in town of these birds, it must not be supposed that they are all that 
are available. There are scores of wild birds, known only to the orni- 
thologist, that can be “ cultivated” as readily as the wild shrubbery 
that under startling names figures in many a florist’s catalogue. Give 


632 


EXPENSIVE RELIGION 


them a foothold, and they will come to stay. Orioles, thrushes, vireos, 
fly-catchers, are not unreasonably afraid of man, and would quickly 
acquire confidence if they were warranted in so doing. How long 
would a scarlet tanager or a cardinal grosbeak remain unmolested if 
it appeared in any city street ! Here is the whole matter in a nutshell : 
the birds are not averse to coming, but the people will not let them. 
This is the more strange, when we remember that hundreds of dollars 
were spent to accommodate the pestiferous imported sparrow, that is 
and always must be a positive curse. Hundreds for sparrows, and not 
one cent for a bluebird ! While the mischief can never be undone, it 
can be held in check, if we will but take the trouble, and this is a 
mere matter of town-garden rearrangement ; and why, indeed, not treat 
our ears to music as well as our eyes to color and our palates to sweet- 
ness? Plant here and there a bush that will yield you a crop of birds. 

Charles C. Abbott. 


EXPENSIVE RELIGION 

O NE evening after supper the usual circle had gathered round the 
kitchen fire, which was blazing on the hearth and sending 
dancing shadows over the well-smoked walls, adorned with rows of 
shining herrings impaled upon sticks and several large coffee-pots of 
a past age, too old for use but not for ornament. There also hung 
many curious pans and tins, relics of the generous cooking of the days 
of crane and pot-hooks, now condemned to perpetual wallflowerdom 
by the Yankee cooking-stove and the straitened scale of modern 
living. 

“ Bless grashus, ef ter-morrer ain’t Sunday ! Is you gwine ter all- 
day meetin’, Uncle Ike?” says Sally, who usually acts the part of 
interlocutor when it is desired to start the old man on one of his 
hobbies. 

“ Dat I ain’t, honey, not ef my name’s Ike, w’ich I ain’t hyeered 
nobody ’sputin’. W’at I gwine ter meetin’ for? It may do dem 
niggers good fer ter shout an’ whoop tell dey ain’t got no bref lef’, an’ 
den tu’n in an’ stuff deyse’fs wid cake an’ chickin’-fixin’s, but dis hyer 
ole nigger ain’t got no call ter be er-watchin’ um. I’s been ’bout ez 
good ez de nex’ nigger in my time, an’ I could do ’bout’s much er any 
kin’ er wuk ez de res’, an’ yit I ain’t never been able ter have nothin’ 
better’n co’n pone an’ side meat, les’n ole Miss’ er some er de yuther 
white folks gin me er treat fer de sake er ole times; an’ whar dese hyer 
niggers gits de grub w’at’s eat at dese hyer churches an’ bush meetin’s 
is pas’ me. I’s been had my s’picions mo’n once, an’ I always has er 
few slugs in de ole gun ’long erbout Sat’d’y night. I lay ole Miss’ 
ain’t los’ no chickins sence dat night I met up wid dat black G’o’ge 
Wash’n’ton an’ him an’ me had dat little scrimmage.” 

Here the old man reached out for a stick of wood from the pile 


THE AWAKENING. 


633 


against the wall, and threw it on the fire, sending a flight of sparks 
to light up the great black throat of the chimney. As the company 
were evidently giving him flattering attention, he continued: 

“ Dese hyer preachers, dey ain’t no better’n de res’, an’ I don’t 
know but mebbe dey’s wus, kaze de yuther people dey does wuk 
endurin’ er de week, but de preachers dey loafs all de time. I ain’t 
never puttin’ none er my pennies in dat sasser ter he’p keep er great 
big black lazy nigger ter get up dar an’ tell me whar I’s gwine w’en 
I gits out er dis, ’z ef he knowed any mo’ ’bout it ’n de res’. I knows 
de good Lord is got too much sense ter sen’ me an’ sich niggers ter de 
same place, kaze dey wouldn’ be no kin’ er peace dar. You hyeer 
me? 

“ Honey, I done been had my church ’sperience, an’ ef de good 
Lord spar’s me I’s not gwine inside one ’gen, ’les’n I’s cyar’d in end- 
ways. One day las’ winter Man’l Griggs, w’at drives de wagon, wuz 
tuk sick, an’ ole Miss’ she got me ter cyar’ de team down wid er load 
er hay. Well, chile, I had ter stay in town all night, an’ arter I done 
fed my horses I sot out fer ter see w’at’s gwine on, an’ bless Gawd, 
honey ! de fus’ news I knowed I come ’cross er nigger church, an’ den, 
like er bawn fool, I goes in ter see w’at’s doin’. I had er mighty nice 
obercoat wid me, w’at Boss Tom jes’ done give me, an’ I wuz mighty 
proud er dat coat. Well, people, I went inter one er dese hyer new- 
fashion’ stalls an’ hung dat coat on de back er de seat an’ ’gun ter look 
’bout. Pres’n’y de preacher ’gun ter fire loose, an’ he says, ‘ Watch an’ 
pray, sinner! Watch an’ pray, fer de bridegroom cometh.’ An’ den 
I dis’membered all ’bout de watchin’ part, an’ down I goes on dese 
hyer ole marrer-bones an’ ’gun ter pray powerful. Bimeby de preacher 
’gun ter sen’ roun’ de sasser, an’ he says, ‘ Bredren, take no thought fer 
de morrer, w’at yer vittles gwine ter be, ner yit yer drinkin’, ner whar- 
wid shell yer be clothed.’ An’ den I ’gun ter feel kin’ er ’shamed er 
bein’ so stuck up ’bout dat obercoat, an’ I looks ’roun’ kin’ er sheepish, 
an’ lo an’ behole, honey, dey wa’n’t no coat dar ! 

“I ain’t so powerful smart, people, but yer kin git er thing inter 
my min’ widout battin’ me on de head wid er maul. I don’ want no 
church ner no preachers fum dis out. I lay ef I’d er done mo’ watchin’ 
and less prayin’ I’d er had dat coat yit ; but I’s gittin’ too powerful ole 
ter be seekin’ de throne ob grace wid one eye open.” 

Phil Stanshury. 


THE AWAKENING. 

T HE beauties of the world do master me : 

They put my soul in such a heavy swoon 
I may not sing of half the love I see 
Beneath the Sun, beneath the lady Moon. 
Love, wake me from this languor deep, that I 
May truly sing of beauty ere I die. 


634 


THE A WAKENING. 


Wake me by bending down thy dreamful face 
And touching lips to mine swoon-bounden ; then 
My soul shall leap and quiver in its place, 

And I shall turn the mightiest of men, 

A master there, with Earth and Sky my slave, 

Because of that one kiss my mistress gave. 

Day’s sweetest flower shall witness to me make, 

Night’s boldest star send messages of fire, 

And all the birds that be, for love’s sole sake, 

Shall quicken wing to come at my desire ; 

While hearts of human-kind hot-beating, cold, 

Draw nigh and house with me till days are old. 

The morning’s challenge in the changeful east — 

A challenge to the heart to live anew — 

Shall steal into whatever words the least 
My song shall fashion tenderly and true. 

The wonder of the sundown in the west 
Shall shine again, and so be twice expressed. 

The sweetest sounds of music shall unite 
My dreams to sister-dreams, as rosaries 
Of carven beads are set and strung aright 
Upon some silken cord sad nuns to please : 

Each lovesome thought shall find a liquid sound, 

And Love be doubly Love so set around. 

The open fields shall offer honest cheer, 

The woods, wind-shaken, sing a welcome-song, 

And every wight who haunts the woodlands dear 
Shall rate me as a mate to shield from wrong. 

The sea the secret of his monotone, 

An age-old thing, to me will tell alone. 

Such powers shall be mine because you came 
And kissed me once ; whereat the deepest bliss 
That ever mortal knew ran swift aflame 

Straight to my soul, and taught me only this, 

To step into the very deep of Love 

And make my nest and sing the joy thereof. 

Richard E. Burton. 


WHY THE BODY SHOULD BE CULTIVATED . 


635 


WHY THE BODY SHOULD BE CULTIVATED. 

“ Elegance of form in the human figure marks some excellence of structure, and 
any increase of fitness to its end in any fabric or organ is an increase of beauty.’ ’ — 
Emerson. 

T HE important subject of physical culture is not considered as it 
ought to be by the majority of men and women, and there is 
almost absolute ignorance of the make-up of the body on the part of 
even intelligent people, with little desire for such knowledge, although 
health, beauty, and success depend largely on the treatment given to the 
body. Mental acquirements are blindly worshipped, while the essential 
question of health receives little thought, and hence it is almost impos- 
sible to find men in the ordinary walks of active life, at middle age, 
who do not complain of impaired health and want of vital force. 

Without a sound body one cannot have a sound mind, and, unless 
proper attention is given to the culture of the body, good health cannot 
be expected. Plato is said to have called a certain man lame because 
he exercised the mind while the body was allowed to suffer. This is 
done to an alarming extent nowadays. Brain-workers, as a rule, exer- 
cise no part of the body except the head, and consequently suffer from 
indigestion, palpitation of the heart, insomnia, and other ills, which if 
neglected generally prove fatal. Brilliant and successful men are con- 
stantly obliged to give up work through the growing malady of nervous 
prostration : the number of those who succumb to it has increased to 
an alarming extent of late years, and that of suicides hardly less. 
Few will question that this is owing to overworking the brain and the 
neglect of body-culture. Vitality becomes impaired and strength con- 
sumed by mental demands, which are nowadays raised to a perilous 
height, and it is only by careful attention to physical development and 
by judicious bodily exercise that the brain-worker can counteract the 
mental strain. Women rarely consider the importance of physical cul- 
ture, yet they need physical training almost more than men do. Thou- 
sands of our young women are unfit to become wives or mothers, who 
might be strong and beautiful if they gave a short time daily to physical 
development. 

Physical training is particularly beneficial to the young of both 
sexes, and educators are becoming alive to the fact. Many of the lead- 
ing colleges have included this subject in the curriculum and spent 
large sums in facilities for the purpose. It is to be hoped that the 
minor seats of learning will speedily follow the example, and a more 
general interest be awakened in the importance of physical education 
for the young. This is a duty which parents should not neglect, for 
they are as strictly responsible for the bodies of their offspring as they 
are for their souls. 

It is a mistake to think that the gymnasium is a place only for the 
young. All who lead sedentary lives, even when past middle age, can 
improve their bodies by gymnastic exercise. Mr. Gladstone by earnest 


636 


TWO TURNINGS . 


physical exercise has built up a strong and healthy body, and he is fond 
of saying that daily exercise keeps him in permanent health and in a 
condition to resist disease. The use of gymnastics creates conditions 
which develop the nervous system. 

There is no time in a man’s life when he can afford to dispense with 
exercise ; unless he faithfully and persistently develops his physical re- 
sources, vitality becomes impaired. Exercise does for the body what 
intellectual training does for the mind ; yet most men who lead seden- 
tary lives take little or no exercise, with the result that they overwork 
the brain, making it incapable of recuperation by nutrition : hence 
irritability, then insomnia, and often the thinking faculty breaks loose 
from the control of the will, resulting in insanity and possibly suicide. 

Physical exercise aids digestion, improves physique, clears the mind, 
and gives grace and assurance. Man’s destiny as regards the body is 
to a great extent in his own hands, and he should study the needs of 
the body if desirous of enjoying life. Unless disease is inherited, every 
mortal born into the world is physically healthy, and if proper atten- 
tion be given to physical culture there is every chance of a long life ; 
but if neglected, premature death is generally the result, for when dis- 
ease attacks the frame there is not sufficient physical strength to resist 
it. Perfect health can exist only when the muscles are perfectly trained, 
and habitual exercise favors the elimination of effete matters from the 
system, food is more easily digested, and nerve-power enhanced. 

It is in the power of any one to improve his physical condition, and 
all who desire symmetry of form, grace of action, and permanent health 
should give attention to the art of developing the body. 

Wilton Tournier. 


TWO TURNINGS. 

I CAME to a turn in my fate, 

And my love stood by : 

I went to his side with a heart elate, 

And “ Little I care,” said I, 

“ Little care I how rough the weather, 

While thou and I are safe together !” 

I came to a turn in my fate, 

But my love was gone : 

There came no word through the silent gate, 
Though I watched and prayed till dawn ; 
And “ Little care I how fair the weather, 
Since love and I are no more together !” 

Florence E. Pratt . 


A THREE-VOLUME TRACT. 


637 


A THREE-VOLUME TRACT 

T HAT is what it is, and its polemic character was a reason why it found so 
little favor with publishers and so much with the public. When the 
“readers” of sundry leading British houses had got through the manuscript of 
“ The Heavenly Twins,” they went to their employers one by one and said, 
“ This is a remarkable book, but it will not do, for it attacks British Society.” 
So great firms and small ones with one accord refused to touch it, till one was 
found at last with independence and acumen enough to bring it out in orthodox 
British form at a guinea and a half, thereby reaping a golden harvest; for 
Society likes to know how bad it is, and those not in Society enjoy hearing 
their betters abused. 

There are no such adventitious reasons why the book should call forth joy 
or rage on this side, for it is not American Society that is attacked, and the only 
American in it makes but a brief and casual appearance and is treated with 
much respect. If it came to us in three volumes it would be apt to find few 
readers, or at any rate few purchasers : as it is, its nearly seven hundred closely- 
printed pages make a rather heavy demand upon one’s time. Is the stir which 
it is making among us merely the respectful echo of an English sensation, or 
has it some better raison d'Ure ? 

One may as well own at the start that the book has marked qualities of 
its own, and that those who do not read it will have something to regret. It 
is individual, original, and unconventional in a high degree. It shows keen 
observation, deep feeling, and, one is tempted to add, sharp experience. The 
author is not imitating anybody else, nor simply striving to amuse herself and 
her readers. It is not her main object to say clever things, though she says 
many, nor to construct a readable story, though she succeeds in that too, after 
a fashion. She is a woman with a mission and a purpose, and her book is 
meant as an engine of reform. To regard it as a mere novel is to ignore the 
part of Hamlet in the play. 

In this connection one cannot help thinking of “ Robert Elsmere.” That 
memorable book doubtless had its share in producing this one, or at least in 
making it possible. But “ The Heavenly Twins” aims much less at theological 
than at social reform. Madame Sarah Grand, as she calls herself, takes no 
pains to define her religious position. She says that her heroine, “ like most 
people in these days, was a good Churchwoman without being in any sense a 
Christian” — a statement so sweeping as to lose all force. In fact, the reader is 
often deterred from going along with the author as heartily as he otherwise 
might by fears of similar exaggeration. As is the way of reformers, she lets 
herself go rather freely, and does not weigh her words too carefully. Good as 
her work is, you are reminded at almost every point of the familiar criticism, 
that “ it would have been better if she had taken more pains.” 

Near the end of the volume Dr. Galbraith remarks that if men would wor- 
ship their wives faithfully, “the strife-begetting uncertainties of heaven and 
hell would be allowed to lapse in order to make room for healthy human hap- 
piness.” He goes on to assert that “ our hearts have been starved upon fables 
long enough; we demand some certainty” — and it can be had only about 
matters of this present life. There is nothing very original or striking in that 


638 


A THREE-VOLUME TRACT. 


position, but it at least saves us from the theological contortions and vicissi- 
tudes of Elsmere — which were not the strong point of Mrs. Ward’s great book, 
though they had a chief share in drawing attention to it. Mme. Grand is 
concerned simply to make earth more habitable and life better worth living — 
especially for women. 

In this effort she naturally comes into collision with certain very mundane 
phenomena, and lays herself open to reprisals from such as object to the un- 
covering of nakedness which is also unclean. She frankly anticipates the most 
wholesale criticism : “ It was said, among other things, that she evidently could 
not be moral at heart, whatever her conduct might be, because she made men- 
tion of immorality in her book.” Her sketch of society at Malta is indeed far 
from attractive ; but one cannot fight the devil with rose-water, nor attack vice 
without using plain language. She does use plain language, and a good deal of it ; 
but everybody knows that the offences which rouse her wrath are by no means 
products of her imagination. They have a very real and wide-spread existence ; 
they are shocking to a pure mind, frightful in their occasional consequences, 
and a festering sore in the body politic. How far or how rapidly they can be 
removed by exposure is matter of opinion, for men like Colonel Colquhoun and 
Sir Mosley Menteith are slow to change their spots ; but any fool ought to be 
able to distinguish between a writer who uses these loathsome themes for 
mere literary effect, and one who hurls a lance at sin from pure love of virtue 
and humanity, like Dr. Muhlenberg in his famous sermon on the Midnight 
Mission, or Mme. Grand in her impassioned plea for the emancipation of 
her sex. She claims not to have startled the proprieties, but only the pruderies : 
“ the proprieties face any necessity for discussion with modest discretion, how- 
ever painful it may be.” 

That word " discretion” is used advisedly. We have here no later “ Kreutzer 
Sonata,” no needless wallowing in nastiness, no lamentable trembling and tot- 
tering of a great mind. Whether or no she makes the very best use of her 
powers, Mme. Grand has not taken leave of her senses, and her chosen outlook 
is upward and forward. If she pauses to look down with wrathful abhorrence, 
it is because crawling and venomous things get in the way and impede her 
progress. She is in thorough sympathy with Angelica’s indignant outburst 
against “ those hateful French people who have no conception of anything un- 
usual in a woman that does not end in gross impropriety of conduct, and fill 
their books with nothing else.” Meaning by “ passion” the sexual impulse in 
its baser forms, she thus analyzes one phase of that unmanageable, reckless, 
dangerous sub-heroine who after all had no harm in her : 

“ Her ideal of pleasure was nice in the extreme. Nothing so vulgar and 
violent as passion entered into it, and nothing so transient, so enervating, cor- 
roding, and damaging both to the intellectual powers and the capacity for 
permanent enjoyment ; and nothing so repulsive either in its details, its self- 
centred egotistical exaltation, and the self-abasement which arrives with that 
final sense of satiety which she perceived to be inevitable.” 

In this passage Angelica is merely a mask for the author’s own sentiments. 
Evidently such familiarity with vice as we may learn from the book is not going 
to lead us to “ first endure, then pity, then embrace” it. Quite the contrary. 
The reader is prepared to condone if not approve the most violent of Angelica’s 
outbreaks, when she calls Sir Mosley Menteith the “ father of a speckled toad,” 
throws the bishop’s great Bible at him, and breaks his nose. 


A THREE-VOLUME TRACT. 


639 


The argument, which is spun out almost to weariness in the lengthened his- 
tory of the heroine, finds a sharp point midway in the tragedy of poor Edith, the 
bishop’s daughter. On her death-bed she calls her father, her husband, and the 
innocent and estimable Dr. Galbraith, and says, “ That is why I sent for you 
all, you who represent the arrangement of society which has made it possible 
for me and my child to be sacrificed in this way.” Then she turns on the sin- 
ner : “ Go ! go ! Father, turn him out of the house. Don’t let me ever see 
that dreadful man again !” A day or two before she had stumbled on one of his 
cast-off mistresses with a rickety baby, the namesake and pattern of her own. 

The author takes up and sharpens the familiar arraignment of Society’s 
paganism in smiling on wealthy and well-mannered libertines. Her contention 
is one to which decent people will find it hard to object: parents ought to in- 
quire more carefully into the private characters of men to whom they give their 
daughters. If the rou6 found that his career barred the doors of pure girls and 
honorable marriage against him, he would gain a motive for self-restraint, which 
is lacking so long as nobody cares for his private sins and inward vileness. 

This plea is neither disguised nor stated with tiresome iteration, but enforced 
by the experience of the heroine, Evadne, a most uncommon and superior person. 
She too is unequally yoked with an unbeliever. She effects a compromise, and 
endures for years the society of one whom she despises, — endures it with such 
graceful patience and apparent content that you rather wonder what she is at ; 
but in the latter part of the book you learn that she has really been foiled, 
starved, thwarted, nullified, and thrown in upon herself, with such disastrous 
consequences that a germ of murderous mania lingers long after the death of 
her tormentor and her second and happy marriage. This alone might make a 
dull story, however valuable the moral ; but it is diversified by a mass of extra- 
neous and often more cheerful matter, — chiefly the performances of the Twins, 
who are anything but heavenly, and whose connection with Evadne is of the 
slightest. They are wonderful creations — for one cannot suppose them to be 
more than “ founded upon fact.” 

The book, as I have hinted, is less a novel than a tract, but it is quite 
correct in these days to cover the pill of one’s contention with the sugar-coatiug 
of fiction. Mme. Grand is not a stylist, but her cleverness often rises to bril- 
liancy, and she says many notable and memorable things. “ He is a kind of 
prophet, I imagine, to whom the Lord doesn’t speak” — this is Diavolo’s verdict 
on his grandfather the old duke, and it hits off personages not a few. “ Slang 
expressions are the scum of language” — that is, some samples of British slang. 
“ ‘ Nobody ever complains of the head when the heart is full.” “Society de- 
mands your heart, having none of its own.” A wife like Evadne, who gives her 
husband no small causes of complaint, “ robs him of all his most cherished illu- 
sions; she shakes his confidence in his own infallible strength, discernment, 
knowledge, and superiority generally ; she outrages his prejudices on the sub- 
ject of what a woman ought to be, and leaves him nothing with which to com- 
pare himself to his own advantage.” 

Our author is no lover of the British army. The Colonel, Evadne’s hus- 
band, “ was a survival, one of the old-fashioned kind of military men who were 
all formed on the same plan ; they got their uniform, their politics, their vices, 
and their code of honor, cut and dried, upon entering the service.” Elsewhere 
we are assured that “ while in barracks he was in the habit of swearing with 
the same ease and as unaffectedly as he made the responses in church. He 


640 


MEN OF THE DAY. 


probably did it from a sense of duty, because he had been brought up in that 
school of colonel.” 

It is easy to ridicule any who would make things better than they are, and 
the Oxford Magazine has a skit on Mme. Grand as a she-prophet who 

Has come to believe in the mission 
Of woman to civilize man, 

To teach him to know his position, 

And to estimate hers if he can. 

It is equally easy, in this case, to show that the reformer, while diligently 
sharpening a very large axe to a very fine point, is neither wilfully unjust nor 
narrowly prejudiced. She is not in love with the institution of marriage, but 
she provides her afflicted heroine with an ideal union at last. She cares more 
for her own sex than for the other, yet the sufficiently distinct Dr. Galbraith 
and the somewhat nebulous Lord Dawne are men whom any woman may re- 
spect and trust as well as like. She has broken with the creeds, yet her most 
exquisite delineation is that of a lonely scholar whose simple and unquestioning 
faith supports him under crushing sorrows. Nothing in recent literature is at 
once more startling and more high-minded than the episode of “ The Tenor and 
the Boy,” which occupies one-sixth of the book. The singer is a unique and 
solitary figure, at once commanding and pathetic. His unworldly purity, his 
manly patience, his tender sadness, his heroic reticence and poverty, his quix- 
otic unselfishness, combine to cast an aureole around his living head, and make 
his early grave a place for pilgrimage. As intensely human as any of the rest, 
he is the saint of the story, and he neither lived nor died in vain. 

The book has as many faults as you please, — but we remember the Preface 
to the Vicar of Wakefield. Call it rambling, ill-constructed, and what not; 
still it is full of life, and that not merely of the day nor for a day. It is a book 
to read and ponder, and not to cast aside, but to put on the shelf with Middle- 
march and Elsmere and David Grieve, and perhaps to return to when many 
other books shall be forgotten. 

Frederic M. Bird . 


MEN OF THE DAY. 

A TTORNEY-GENERAL OLNEY is a sturdily-built, short-necked, beetle- 
browed man, of middling height, with a broad, high forehead, a square- 
jawed, forceful face adorned by a drooping iron-gray moustache, and is dignified 
rather than suave of manner. He is eight-and-fifty, and comes of a “ fighting” 
Baptist family. He is not and never pretended to be an orator, but he speaks 
with great force and deliberation, and as a lawyer ranks with the best at the 
Boston bar. He is particularly strong in corporation law, and has pocketed 
many fat fees in his time for legal services rendered to railroad companies. It 
is said that when appointed Attorney-General his practice was quite worth fifty 
thousand dollars a year. It will be seen, therefore, that he did not enter the 
cabinet without making a considerable pecuniary sacrifice. Socially he is a 
most charming companion. He devoutly believes in the truth of Carlyle’s 
favorite proposition that “ silence is golden.” He is a somewhat taciturn, 
quiet-going man. of studious tendencies, and has always eschewed publicity. 
He enjoys the distinction of having twice refused a seat on the Supreme 
Court Bench of his native Bay State. 


M. Crofton. 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


641 


Books of t&e JHontln 


CHOSEN FOR THE CHRISTMAS SEASON. 


Tales from Shak- 
speare. Including 
those by Charles and 
Mary Lamb. With 
a Continuation by 
Harrison S. Morris. 
Four Volumes. 


The Tales from ShaJcspeare of Charles and Mary Lamb 
have instructed and delighted three generations of men. 
They were written as a needful task by the brother and 
sister so well beloved, and were issued from Mr. Godwin’s 
Juvenile Library in 1807, in company with an abundance 
of other books for the young which are now lost in the deep 
sea of forgotten things. But there was a living charm, a 
universal and vital art in the work of the kindly brother and sister which par- 
took of their own sympathetic hearts. What was so simply and genuinely 
done was a precious gift to English literature, and hence the masterly little tales 
have not been permitted to die. Indeed, there are few books which have passed 
into so many editions as these during the eighty-six years of their existence; 
and this makes it all the more surprising that some clever author has not long 
ago completed the list of prose versions of Shakspeare’s dramas by turning the 
sixteen omitted by the Lambs into similar tales. 

But the pleasant task has been reserved for Mr. Harrison S. Morris, who 
last year performed the same service for the Victorian poets, and he has pro- 
vided in this for the first time completed Tales from Shahspeare a set of four 
delightful volumes which will be desired by all the old lovers of the stories, be- 
cause of the new tales added in the last two volumes; by those who have never 
won the acquaintance of the Lambs, because of the originals included in the 
first two volumes; and by all beginners in English literature, because Shak- 
speare in his entirety may now be had in this engaging prose style. Mr. Morris 
has apparently striven to keep his versions as much in harmony with the old- 
fashioned vein of Elia and his sister as was consistent with his varying cast 
of thought and his ability to follow in footsteps which have trodden away 
through the past decades into the domain of the classics. It is plain that he 
has also endeavored, like the Lambs, to preserve the tone and turn of Shak- 
speare’s sentences and to give the reader, whether young or old, — for both alike 
are devoted lovers of these ever-fresh tales, — the genuine ring of the immortal 
lines. In no case does he seem to have taken any liberties with the sacred text; 
but occasionally, like his famous predecessors, he has indulged in some perti- 
nent reflection suggested by the passage in hand : drawing a conclusion or point- 
ing a moral — if not adorning a tale — where such a thought might not be evident 
to those unacquainted with the scope of the play under treatment. 

It is due, however, to this adventurer in a difficult field that he should 
receive credit for the greater obstacles which he has struggled with. Charles 
and Mary Lamb chose the twenty plays of Shakspeare which, with their deep 
knowledge of the Master’s work, they conceived to be best fitted for their pur- 
pose. They thus left untreated sixteen plays which lent themselves with less 
grace and ease to rendition into prose. It is these sixteen plays — namely, 
Love’s Labor’s Lost, Merry Wives of Windsor, Troilus and Cressida, King John, 
Vol. LII. — 41 


642 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH 


King Richard II., King Henry IV., Parts I. and II., King Henry V., King 
Henry VI., Parts I., II., and III., King Richard III., King Henry VIII., Cori- 
olanus, Julius Csesar, and Antony and Cleopatra — which have passed through 
Mr. Morris’s prose alembic, and that he has made of them presentable versions 
at all worthy to take their place beside the famous originals is a matter of con- 
gratulation to the hosts of readers who will rejoice in the completion of the 
prose Shakspeare. 

The four handy and handsome little volumes are daintily printed, attrac- 
tively bound, and illustrated by masters of black-and-white whose conceptions 
of Shakspeare’s characters are a delight to both eye and mind. Besides the 
regular edition, the seeker for artistic Christmas books may secure an Edition dc 
luxe , with added steel plates, large paper, and a unique binding of gold and 
buckram which render the outer volume as precious as the inner text. 


Barabbas. A Dream 
of the World’s 
Tragedy. By Marie 
Corelli. 


It would be hard to put one’s finger on just the element 
which makes an appeal to the universal heart in such 
books as Ben Hur and Uncle Tom's Cabin. That there is a 
chord in them vibrating deep into human nature no one can 
deny; but if Barabbas , the latest novel of Marie Corelli, 
issued this month by the J. B. Lippincott Company, does not possess this same 
magic charm, then all critical insight fails. 

Barabbas is the story of the Divine Passion. It starts from the hideous 
den where Hanan and Barabbas are imprisoned, follows Barabbas to the Justice 
Chamber where Jesus stands confronting his accusers, narrates how Barabbas, 
the thief and murderer, is released and Jesus condemned, and follows the foot- 
steps of the Saviour up the hill of Calvary to the cross. There the awful 
tragedy is enacted, darkness descends, and the multitude is stilled with terror. 
Barabbas has found the protecting guidance of Melchior, one of the kings who 
came to worship the Young Babe, and in his mystical company watches, with a 
smitten heart, the sacrifice of the noble Nazarene. He is in love with the sister 
of Judas Iscariot, Judith, a beautiful woman who is unlawfully wooed by Caia- 
phas the high priest, and who in the realistic version of the novelist is charged 
with being particeps criminis in the treachery of Judas and with instigating the 


death of Jesus. 

The whole Divine Event, with all its consequences and surrounding epi- 
sodes, is wrought into a story which is at once reverential and picturesque. The 
Bible narrative is in no wise distorted, but many figures, mythical or legendary, 
are brought within its scope, and the slender chain of facts, told with the old, 
simple eloquence, is stretched to a volume of many pages, no one of which 
lacks color, action, human insight, and imagination. In short, the tale is to 
fiction what the miracle-play Oberammergau is to the drama: a height- 
ening and realizing of a story which the sacred text leaves in a halo of mys- 
tery. A Dream of the World's Tragedy is the sub-title; but the dream is as 
vivid as life itself. The heat of the Syrian day ; the staring colors of the crowd ; 
the look and gesture of dark-skinned Jews; Melchior with his “long, oval face 
and straight, black brows;” the dead, in Justitia’s dream, “ white as parchment 
or bleached bone,” — all these and their surroundings are tangible facts created 
by the skill of. an able writer who, seeing intensely, portrays with vivid strokes. 
The book will make a wide appeal, and at this Christmas season comes forth 


with an especial fitness. 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


643 


There is a magic in the name of Napoleon which is forever 
alluring. Anecdote, fiction, history, — all have taken on an 
intensified glow from that dramatic career, and the jaded 
reader is sure of self-forgetfulness and passionate interest 
no matter how often the tale is told. Of the narratives 
most minute in delineation, most heedful of the power, 
majesty, and tragic sweep of the great emperor’s life, 
Thiers’s is perhaps the foremost. It was written by a 
master of historic statement and literary form in the gener- 
ation succeeding Napoleon I., and while it is sufficiently faithful to facts to be 
true, it is infused enough with loyal admiration to be inspiring. 

“ Here,” says the historian, “ we have a remarkable young man who, after 
ten years of horrible anarchy, comes before his contemporaries covered with 
glory. Trampling every law under his feet, he reaches to supreme power. By 
his wisdom, his prudence, his good deeds, the wonders he accomplishes, he 
becomes the idol of his country and the admiration of the world. But soon the 
intoxication of success mounts to his head ; he attacks Europe, overwhelms, 
subdues, oppresses, revolts it, draws it down upon himself, and falls, surrounded 
by glory unparalleled, into an abyss into which France is dragged with him. 
How,” asks M. Thiers, “ judge of such a stupendous career?” And with all his 
great equipment of scholarship, of knowledge of affairs, of access to the archives 
of the state, and of human experience, he proceeds to answer the question in 
the twelve volumes of his master-work of history. 

This great book, never without demand, has of late been obtainable only in 
the older English editions ; and, with their wise policy of supplying each year 
some standard work, the Messrs. Lippincott, in conjunction with an English 
publisher, have undertaken its reproduction with new type and the thirty-six 
valuable steel plates from portraits, by Isabey, Lawrence, Sandoz, and other 
artists, which appeared in the original French edition. The translation is the 
one sanctioned and approved by M. Thiers, and made by D. Forbes Campbell 
and John Stebbing, and the volumes, twelve in number, will appear monthly, 
the first two having been issued in September and October. 

In external dignity the tall, well-printed, and stately octavos of blue and 
gold do credit to the precious contents they enclose. 

, The stories of the Bible, of history, or even of fiction which 

Historical Tales. _ . . . . „ , . . . . 

The Romance of Re- remain longest in the mind of the reader in his teens are 

aiity. By Charles those which tell of war or of adventure. A good, round, 

Morris. Four Voi- sava ge fight is what a boy or girl loves best of all, but next 
after this are mystery and fairy-land. Put Macaulay, or 
Green, or Gibbon, into young hands, and you will find the pages turned down 
where the blows are deadliest or where the feats of strength in the greenwood 
are most lusty. 

Much has been done in our own day to appeal to these native instincts of 
childhood. It has come to be believed that what springs up naturally in the 
breast of youth must be good and wholesome. The old histories, heavy to handle, 
heavier to read, have been thumbed into shreds, and now comes forward a 
newer and better sort of history, leaving out tiresome details and serving up to 
the keen young palates just the spice of war and romance which most of all 
they like. 


History of the Con- 
sulate and Empire 
of France under 
Napoleon. By Louis 
Adolphe Thiers. 
Translated by D. 
Forbes Campbell 
and John Stebbing-. 
Illustrated. Vols. 
I. and II. 


644 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


Such an historic library is formed by these four attractive volumes, prepared 
by Mr. Charles Morris for the Lippincotts. They are well called Historical 
Tales , and are admirably described in the sub-title, The Romance of Reality. Each 
volume is devoted to a different land, namely, America, England, France, and 
Germany, and within the compass of a few pages, easily read at a sitting, the 
author briefly but pointedly recites some stirring event in the annals of the 
respective nations. Under the first heading we have twenty-five episodes of our 
own history, ranging from Vineland and the Vikings, through Washington’s 
Journey to the French Forts and Paul Revere’s Ride, to How the Electric Tele- 
graph was Invented and The Sinking of the Albemarle. In the English vol- 
ume there are twenty-seven episodes, including King Alfred and the Danes, 
Robin Hood and the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, Wallace and Bruce, 
The Black Prince at Poitiers, Cromwell and the Parliament, and Trafalgar and 
the Death of Lord Nelson. French history yields thirty-one stirring tales, 
among which are those of Roland at Roncesvalles, Bertrand du Guesclin, Joan 
of Arc, Bayard the Good Knight, The Man with the Iron Mask, The Fall of 
the Bastille, The End of the Terror, and Napoleon’s Return from Elba. And 
in the volume devoted to Germany there are thirty-two stories, such as The 
Raids of the Sea-Rovers, The Black Death and the Flagellants, Sempach and 
Arnold Winkelried, The Fortunes of Wallenstein, The Youth of Frederick the 
Great, and the Patriots of the Tyrol. 

This hasty summary of the abundantly rich contents of Historical Tales 
will serve to show with what discriminating judgment and sympathy for youth- 
ful tastes they have been chosen ; and when are added to this the handsome 
binding, and the numerous half-tone plates, selected with wise care as aids as 
well as embellishments to the text, the buyer of holiday gifts for the youngsters 
will be unerringly led to these volumes. 

The hearty spirit of the good old English Christmas season 
Seven Christmas ^as seemed to pass into shadow with its one great celebrant, 
Authors. By Seven the author of The Chimes. His gayety and endless love of 

the homely traits of mankind kept the yule-log burning 
while he lived ; but the hearth has been cold fora generation now, and we need 
new buoyance and good will to men to blow it into flame. This, in some meas- 
ure, is provided in Seven Christmas Eves , just from the Lippincott press, in 
which seven notable writers of fiction contribute each a share to the story of 
little Nick and Nan, waifs in the London streets, who come to be lovers, then 
man and wife, and finally reach the sum of happiness which their goodness 
deserves. The authors and their respective tales are as follows : The Testimony 
of Mrs. Mary Cheevers regarding them Two, by Clo Graves; The Opinion of 
David Dix, Night-Watchman, about that Boy and Girl, by B. L. Farjeon ; 
Stray Recollections of Charles Challice, Policeman 999 X, respecting that 
Young Man and that Young Woman, by Florence Marryat; Statement of 
Arthur Rowan, Warder on Board the Convict Ship Irons, concerning a Prisoner 
who Quelled a Mutiny and was afterwards Released, by George Manville 
Fenn ; Spme Evidence of Alfred Curran, Newspaper Reporter, concerning a 
Pair of True Lovers, by Mrs. Campbell Praed; Remarks of Charles Turrill, 
Esq., M.P., relative to an Episode in the House, by Justin Huntley McCarthy ; 
and A Good-Night Chapter, containing a Bundle of Old Memories by a Lonely 
Clergyman, by Clement Scott. 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


645 


It will be noticed at once by faithful readers of Dickens that this is the plan 
so often employed by him in his Christmas numbers of Household Words. Any 
good device that would admit of a series of tales, all in tone and told by vari- 
ous hands, would serve his purpose ; and these excellent writers, his successors 
in the cheerful field, have invented apian of collaboration that would have won 
his frank approval. 

The illustrations fall in excellently with the text and give a genuine holiday 
atmosphere to the pages in which they are inserted. 


A smart and racy story is A Third Person , just issued in 
B ^ctoker 011 B7 Lippincott Series of Select Novels. It possesses all the 

vivacity and humor so characteristic of its author, Mrs. B. 
M. Croker, and it offers the further excellence of strikingly funny situations. 
New to fiction is the elderly stamp-collector; and, if not new, here served # up 
quite fresh, the parrot of domestic revelation. Caught between these horns of 
a dilemma, young Captain Hope makes love to the philatelist’s grand-daughter 
for a time despairingly, and at last, after vain longing, successfully. He is a 
manly chap, with an aunt who lives at Morpingham and whose reputation 
among her neighbors is not one of fixed respect. She has a good heart, how- 
ever, and her sins against convention are venial ones. It is her execrable hand- 
writing, which makes no distinction between 3’s and 5’s, that reveals to the 
captain when he comes to visit her the good-looking girl next door. Indeed, 
the tale is one of clever devices and fortunate hits in plot and character, and 
it is as refreshing as the bright wit of a clever woman. 


NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS. 


Illustrated Editions 
of Miscellanies and 
Charles the Fifth. 
By W. H. Prescott. 


Following their commendable practice of bringing illus- 
tration to the aid of history, which has done so much to 
renew the interest in standard works like Strickland’s 
Queens of England and Prescott’s Mexico , Peru , Ferdinand 
and Isabella , and Philip //., the Messrs. Lippincott now issue 
in a sumptuous dress the Miscellanies and the Charles the Fifth of Prescott, with 
autotype illustrations which are not only a delight to the eye but of vast use to 
the reader in understanding the stately text. 

It is an additional source of pleasure in reading the great historian’s biog- 
raphies or criticisms of literary celebrities to find excellent portraits confront- 
ing the letter-press. One receives a new impression of the man in seeing his 
countenance; and this is so even when the faces are more familiar, as in the 
instances of Irving, Sir Walter Scott, Chateaubriand, Bancroft, Moliere, and all 
the rest of the famous subjects of Prescott’s able Miscellanies. 

Even more essential is the adequate illustration of works of history with 
cities, edifices, and men ; for as one reads but ill without a map, so one misses 
the heart of the scene without pictures. The care and artistic taste, therefore, 
which have been expended upon this new edition ae luxe of Charles the Fifth 
will be valued by old and new readers alike; and it is within bounds to say 
that a more appreciable gift among books it would not be possible to secure 
than the handsome set of thirteen volumes which is completed by the issue of 
the Miscellanies and the Charles the Fifth . 


646 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


The cry back to the tastes of our noble forefathers was 
emphasized in the spring by the sudden popularity of Miss 
Anne Wharton’s volume, Through Colonial Doorways. The 
demand has been incessant, we are told, for this book so 
diverting in contents and so charming in appearance; and 
now, in company with the issue of a new edition of the origi- 
nal work, comes the announcement of a limited edition de luxe. One would have 
thought that the art of book-making “ could no further go,” but the Messrs. 
Lippincott, aided by the author, have in this elegant object of art certainly out- 
done themselves. The paper, the binding, and the wealth of illustrations pro- 
duce a result so like, and yet so much more luxurious than, the first version, that 
even possessors of the one will crave the other. The pictures consist of etchings 
and albertypes of rare old family portraits, some of which have never before 
been permitted to see the light, and of the stately homes of families whose 
names are known the country through. Miss Wharton has been allowed to use 
these as a matter of personal favor, and their value will be properly esteemed 
by those who are aware of the reserve that hedges round such patrician home- 
steads. 


Through Colonial 
Doorways. By 

Anne Hollings- 
worth Wharton. 
Edition de Luxe. 
Illustrated. 


It will be good news to the multitudes of boys and girls 
who are now men and women that the old favorite of 
their childhood, Queechy, has at last found an appropriate 
illustrator. Every man and woman of them will want to 
taste over again, through the pleasure of their children, 
the affectionate delight aroused by the tale of little Fleda 
and her grandfather. How true it all was, how pathetic, how pretty ! — and now, 
w T ith the thirty pictures done in touching simplicity by Mr. Frederick Dielman, 
the sweet old tale takes on an added charm, and will appeal to the new, as it 
did to the old generation, with a spell born of kindly humor and candid good- 
ness. 

Among all the host of artists in black-and-white who have given America 
pre-eminence in this form of illustration, no one could possibly be chosen who, 
from knowledge of child-life and of old-time manners, is so fitted to make 
pictures for Queechy as Mr. Dielman. Besides the pictures the Lippincott Com- 
pany has provided new plates and an attractive cover to adapt the book to the 
taste of holiday buyers and readers. 


Queechy. By Eliz- 
abeth Wetherell. 
New Edition, with 
Thirty Illustra- 
tions by Freder- 
ick Dielman. 


New Illustrated 
Editions of Strick- 
land’s Queens of 
England, In the 
Yule-Log Glow, 
Tales from Ten 
Poets, King Arthur 
and the Knights of 
the Round Table, 
Half-Hour Series, 
and Tales from the 
Dramatists. 


The successes of the past two years in holiday books for 
old and young, light and serious, have borne their fruits in 
some new editions of these handsome and popular volumes. 
The J. B. Lippincott Company has taken much pains to 
refresh them with new pictures and other novel features, 
and what has never grown old is now doubly new. 

Of that standard work of history, Strickland’s Lives 
of the Queens of England , in eight volumes, its publishers 
have issued a New Cabinet Edition, at a lesser price than 
last year’s elaborate set, but essentially the same in internal 
form. 


Mr. Harrison S. Morris’s production of last year, Tales from Ten Poets , giving 
clear and brief prose versions of the best narrative poems of the Victorian period, 
from Browning to Buchanan; and of year before last, In the Yule-Log Glow , 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 


647 


Christmas tales and poems illustrating the holy season all round the world, are 
brought forth in new editions, the former with no essential change, the latter 
with delicately-beautiful pictures. 

The King Arthur and the Knights of the Bound Table , and the Half-Hour 
Series, by Mr. Charles Morris, both appear anew and with added illustrations. 
In the latter series are the sets of Half-Hours with the Best Foreign Author's, 
four volumes, The Best Humorous Authors, four volumes, and The Best American 
Authors, four volumes, and Half-Hours with American History, two volumes. 
Great care has been bestowed upon the illustration of these new editions by Mr. 
Charles Morris, and the excellent half-tone prints he has introduced render 
the volumes, always useful to students and agreeable to general readers, more 
useful and agreeable than ever. This author’s Tales from the Dramatists are 
served up in a new edition similar to last year’s issue. They comprise four 
pretty volumes, with likenesses of many of the brightest stars in the galaxy of 
the British Drama. 


JUVENILES. 

As if they were told by a low, sweet woman’s voice in the 
twilight of a winter’s log fire, these tales by Ouida penetrate 
into the mind and heart. Picture, sentiment, music of 
phrase, and insinuated moral, all make up a fair harmony 
which one who hears never forgets, for when a child reads 
or listens to such loving and lovely tales by the household 
fire there is a goodness that goes with them into his being which cannot be 
cast out. 

Ouida, dispute as we will over her novels, is a mistress of the art of 
story-telling for children, and they respond to her caressing speech with in- 
stinctive liking. Put this volume into the hands of a boy or girl as a holiday 
gift, and there is not only pleasure for the eye from its outward beauty, but 
there is absorption for the senses in its magic text. The tales are A Dog of 
Flanders, A Provence Eose, A Leaf in the Storm, and A Branch of Lilac, 
names which in themselves bear the haunting charm of the stories they 
designate. 

The illustrations are by the sympathetic pen of Mr. Edmund H. Garrett. 
They occupy a full page each, and are quite in keeping with the simplicity of 
these tender little histories of the youth of other lands. 


A Dog of Flanders, 
and Other Stories. 
By Ouida. Illus- 
trated by Edmund 
H. Garrett. 


The Chronicles of Nursery tales have become so grown-up under the stress 
Fairy-Land. By °f ethics which the last generation has suffered that it is a 
Fergus Hume, ii- wholesome change to have these Chronicles of Fairy-Land 
Dunlop^ by M (Lippi ncott), for old and young, which Mr. Fergus Hume’s 

delicate fancy and pleasant humor have provided. The 
Red Elf and his fellows of the moonlight-land to which we are taken are real, 
true elfins, without a thought of an object-lesson saving that what happens 
is the natural result of being good or being bad. It is all so picturesque, so 
deftly turned, and so easily written that, with the pretty pictures and musical 
verses, there could not be found a truer chronicle of King Oberon’s realm. In 
size, shape, appearance, and contents this is a book that will win the affection 
of every youngster who finds it in his stocking on Christmas morning. 


BOOKS OF THE MONTH. 

For little tots who like to be read to, then to look at the 
pictures, nothing happier could be conceived than this 
nice, broad, brown-covered book, with two of the little 
maidens dancing the rope on the cover, and a quantity of 
full-page pictures of small people just like themselves 
inside. It is called Twenty Little Maidens , and was written by a lover of chil- 
dren, Miss Amy E. Blanchard, and illustrated by their portrait-painter in chief, 
Miss Ida Waugh, and is published by the J. B. Lippincott Company. The 
twenty very young ladies whose stories are told are Elsie, Rhoda, Agnes, Dor- 
othy, Millicent, Lois, Janet, Olney, Bertha, Margery, and a half-score more 
with names equally pretty and histories quite as happy. 


648 

Twenty Little 
Maidens. By Amy 
E. Blanchard. Il- 
lustrated by Ida 
Waugh. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


649 





You jhave n’t enough taking powder 
tt look at -mine 

Itei I Kave, for mme is the 





y t 


650 


CURRENT NOTES. 


The Awful Loneliness of the Plains.— Mid-ocean is not more lone- 
some than the plains, nor night so gloomy as that dumb sunlight. It is barren 
of sound. The brown grass is knee-deep; and even that trifle gives a shock, 
in this hoof-obliterated land. The bands of antelope that drift, like cloud- 
shadows, across the dun landscape suggest less of life than of the supernatural. 
The spell of the plains is a wondrous thing. At first it fascinates. Then it 
bewilders. At last it crushes. It is sure as the grave,— and worse. It is in- 
tangible, but resistless ; stronger than hope, reason, will,— stronger than human- 
ity. When one cannot otherwise escape the plains, one takes refuge in madness. 
— C. F. Lummis, in Scribner's Magazine . 

Strange Waywardness. — Dante Gabriel Rossetti, painter and poet, had 
impulsive and hot-headed ways, which might have caused his detractors to con- 
sider him a spoiled child. One day, when he was sitting upon the ground, lean- 
ing on his easel, it came down with a picture which had given him a great deal 
of trouble, and the china palette, breaking, cut his hands. 

“ This has ended it all !” he cried. “ I shall have lockjaw ; and a very good 
thing, too I Pve had enough of this work !” 

“ Nonsense, Gabriel !” said Harry Quilter, who tells the story in his “ Pref- 
erences.” “ People don’t have lockjaw simply because they cut their thumbs !” 

“ If people cut their thumbs they always have lockjaw,” he returned. 
“ Well, I’m glad I shall never touch this picture again !” And he never did 
touch it. 

He was both romantic and shrewd, and among Yankee speculators there 
are few keener men of business than was this child-like genius. Yet he 
treated the purchasers of his pictures with scant courtesy. George Rae, a 
banker and a fine judge of art, had bought several of them, but he objected to 
the price Rossetti had set on “ The Bride.” A few days after he returned, and 
Rossetti greeted him sarcastically. 

“ What do you want for your picture ?” asked Rae. 

“ Three hundred guineas.” 

“ Why, you offered it to me for two hundred and fifty !” 

“I really don’t remember,” was the lordly reply; “ perhaps I did. But 
why didn’t you take it? Well, you may have it for three hundred pounds. If 
the odd shillings are of any use to you, Rae, you’re welcome to them !” 

It was sometimes a wonder to those who knew Rossetti casually that his 
friends bore so patiently with his moods and impulses, but it was nevertheless 
true that he was deeply beloved, and that his faults were universally tolerated. 
— Youth's Companion . 

A Wise Precaution. — Once when a certain legislature of the great State 
of Ohio had before it the consideration of a question relative to the peniten- 
tiary, it was decided that the body should visit the prison. Just what legisla- 
ture it was need not here be stated, but its reputation had gone before it every- 
where. It happened when the law-makers paid their visit the prisoners were 
all in their cells, but they knew of the distinguished persons who were coming. 
The great door opened to admit the gentlemen, and as the last one stepped 
inside and the doors clanged shut, a prisoner yelled so everybody. could hear, 
“ Hands on your pocket-books, boys. Here comes the legislature .”— Detroit 
Free Press. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


651 



NOVEMBER 

Is a month of variable weather, often 
ranging, in the course of a few hours, 
from genial warmth to bitter cold. It is, 
Iherefore, a season especially prolific in throat and lung 
lomplaints. Children and old people are the greatest 
•ufferers. The attacks are usually swift and frequently 
iital ; hence the need of being constantly prepared for 
uch visitations. With Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral at hand, 
Vou are comparatively safe. It is always ready, always 
•greeable, and always effective. Half a century’s ex- 
perience has proved that, for colds, coughs, croup, bron- 
ihitis, hoarseness, and sore throat, the best medicine in 
ihe world is 


Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral 


Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Dowell, Mass. 


Prompt to Act , Sure to Cure 


HI is essential to perfect health. This is a self- 

14 § llllll evident and well-known fact. It is also well- 
ULI#y ol known that the best method of purifying the 
c51ood, is to take Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. Thousands of persons, who have suffered 
with diseases originating in impure blood and have been cured by the use of this 
Medicine, testify to this. It expels from the human system the poisons which 
Ark in cells, tissues, and veins, and drives each element of disease out of the body. 

Ayer’s Sarsaparilla 

Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. 

Has cured others, will cure you 



652 


CURRENT NOTES. 


Chinese Popular Literature at the Fair. — The peculiar notions en- 
tertained by the Chinese about gods, ghosts, and genii are well exemplified in 
their popular literature, of which a special collection, covering a large variety 
of subjects and embracing examples of most of the books sold in their shops 
here, is exhibited. 

About all of the immigrants are able to read and write a little. Novels are 
their favorite literature, and their heroes and heroines are well-known personages 
indeed. It is their images that are sold in the shops. Among them are the 
Eight Genii, the warlike heroine Muk Kwai Ying and her husband, Ylung Tung 
Po, and Kwanyin, the goddess of Mercy. They and their emblems form the 
decorations of much of the Chinese porcelain. They lived, when on earth, 
among the hills and grottos of Southern China, and their legends cluster thick 
around the old homes of these people. The story-books, with their constant 
repetitions and innumerable episodes, prove tiresome to the Western mind, but 
what rich treasures they contain of lore that delights the student of manners 
and antique customs ! This literature has a practical side as well. 

Apart from the romances and astrologies, the song-books and treatises on 
fortune-telling and geomancy, there are simple arithmetics, for the abacus, com- 
pendiums of history, herbals, and medical hand-books. The almanac is sold 
with each recurring new year, and comes with predictions of the good and bad 
fortune attending various enterprises for each day in the year. What a store- 
house of folk-lore this thick octavo volume, with its party-colored imprint in 
red, black, green, and yellow, and its curious pictures of the sage Confucius, 
Cheung T’in Sz, the Secretary of Heaven, forms for those who can read its well- 
ordered pages ! They are not deficient in the soundest moral teachings. The 
Chinese copy-books, like those of our own schools, are set with golden precepts, 
and the influence of literature, apart from the novels, many of which are con- 
demned, is exerted for what is deemed best, if not for the individual, surely for 
the general welfare of the nation. — Chicago Tribune . 

The Misuse of Some Adjectives.— -The word “nice” is frequently mis- 
used and taken from its significance of neat, delicate, dainty, to stand for agree- 
able, charming, or virtuous. Thus, a girl was talking to another of that 
decidedly objectionable member of society, a burglar, and, alluding to one in 
particular, a man undergoing a sentence of imprisonment, said, with emphasis, 
“ I don’t think he was a nice young man.” A “ nice” girl, by the way, often 
does duty in describing a young woman who, whatever else she may be, is more 
than nice if she is gentle, good, winsome, and well bred, and whose niceness 
ought to be taken for granted. 

“Lovely” in the same way is applied equally to a favorite pudding or a 
beloved relative. “ First-rate” serves as a qualifying adjective when scenery, 
fine clothes, a pleasant time, or — oh, worst and saddest of misnomers! — the 
“ natural” appearanee of a corpse are the topics which the speaker has in mind. 
— Harper's Bazar . 

Wisdom Not Learned at College. — The diploma amounts to very little 
after the presentation speech. It can’t earn a living for the graduate, and no 
pawnbroker would be rash enough to advance anything on it. The relative 
consequence of the diploma and its recipient is generally misunderstood. — Florida 
Times - Union . 


CURRENT NOTES. 


653 


"A HANDFUL OF DIRT MAY BE A HOUSE- 
FUL OF SHAME.” CLEAN HOUSE WITH 

SAPOLIO 




654 


CURRENT NOTES. 


Can Plants See? — Darwin gave it as his opinion that some of them can, 
and an Indian botanist relates some curious incidents which tend to verify the 
belief. Observing one morning that the tendrils of a convolvulus on liis veranda 
had decidedly leaned over toward his leg as he lay in an attitude of repose, he 
tried a series of experiments with a long pole, placing it in such a position that 
the leaves would have to turn away from the light in order to reach it. In 
every case he found that the tendrils set themselves visibly toward the pole, and 
in a few hours had twined themselves closely around it. — London Public Opinion. 

Such is Fame. — Affable Stranger. — “ I can’t help thinking I have seen 
your picture somewhere in the newspapers.” 

Hon. Mr. Greatman. — “ Oh, no doubt, no doubt. It’s often been published.” 

Stranger. — “ Then I was not mistaken. What were you cured of?” — New 
York Weekly. 

A Story of the Sea. — Mr. Snow in his reminiscences, which he unfor- 
tunately never finished, tells* in connection with his sufferings a gruesome tale 
of a sea-monster, who flogged his apprentice so savagely about the head and 
face with a knotted cord that the poor lad sprang overboard and was drowned. 
When the ship arrived at Liverpool, the widowed mother of the lad was at the 
dock waiting to welcome her only son. The captain reported he had fallen 
overboard off the Bahamas and was drowned. Drowned!” cried a terrible 
voice proceeding none knew from where or whom. “ Murdered! The skipper 
flogged him mad. He jumped overboard out of his pain.” The mother shrieked 
and fell senseless on the pier. When she recovered consciousness, she knelt 
down in the presence of the crew and solemnly prayed God to send his mur- 
derer to the same fate that he doomed her boy. 

Next voyage, so the story goes, as the ship was passing the Bahamas the 
captain was looking over the lee quarter at some sharks which were playing 
near where the boy had been drowned, when suddenly the dead boy’s voice 
called him from the deep, the ship gave a sudden lurch, and the captain fell 
headlong into the sea. Before those on board quite realized what had happened, 
there was a swift rush of sharks to the spot, and all that was ever seen of the 
demon captain was a crimson spot on the waves. Mr. Snow tells the tale as it 
was told to him, but he adds that since he began to keep regular journals he 
has met with too many extraordinary coincidences in his own life for him to 
have antecedent scepticism as to the possibility of such a story being strictly 
true. — Review of Reviews. 

His Hero. — Eager Man (craning his head and neck forward). — “Can you 
see him ?” 

Man in Front. — “ Yes. He’s near the chairman’s stand.” 

“ He’s about the biggest man in the whole business, isn’t he?” 

“ Yes. He has presided over a great many of these General Assemblies, is 
the author of several volumes of sermons, is one of the best theologians in the 
church, and is an acknowledged authority in all branches of ecclesiastical 
polemics. He’s about to call the Assembly to order. Do you see the com- 
manding way in which he ” 

“No! No! He isn’t the man I mean, at all. I don’t know who he is, and 
I don’t care anything about him. The man I want to see is the one they’re 
going to try for heresy.” — Chicago Tribune. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


655 


USE 

FOR 

PILES 

BURNS 

SORE 

EYES 

WOUNDS 

SORES 

Headache 

AND 

ALL 

PAIN 


POND’S EXTRACT 


Have the early frosts or too late a lin- 
gering by the garden gate again aroused 
that RHEUMATISM SO peacefully 
slumbering the summer long? Well, if 
it’s very bad you must change your diet 
and perhaps take some distasteful drug 
— the doctor will tell you what — but first 
rub thoroughly the part afflicted with 
POND’S EXTRACT, then wrap it 
warmly with flannel, and the rheuma- 
tism may wholly disappear. It will cer- 
tainly be much relieved. Now that you 
have the POND S EXTRACT try it for 
any of the many things its buff wrapper 
mentions. It’s a wonderful curative. 
But don't accept substitutes. 

POND’S EXTRACT CO., 76 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 


FOR 

COLDS 

CUTS 

BRUISES 

SPRAINS 

SORE 

THROAT 

Catarrh 

AND 

AFTER 

SHAVING 



LAROCHE S INVIGORATING TONIC. 


GRAND NATIONAL P RBZE OF 16,600 FRANCS. 


CONTAINING 

Peruvian Bark, Iron 

AND 

Pure Catalan Wine. 

An experience of 25 years in experimental 
analysis, together with the valuable aid extend- 
ed by the Academy of Medicine in Paris, has 
enabled M. Laroche to extract the entire active 
properties of Peruvian Barlt(a result not before 
attained), and to concentrate them in an elixir, 
which possessed in the highest degree its restor- 
ative and invigorating qualities, free from the 
disagreeable bitterness of ordinary prepara- 
tions. 

This invigorating tonic is powerful in its 
effect, is easily administered, assimilates 
thoroughly and quickly with the gastric juices, 
without deranging the action of the stomach. 

Iron and Cinchona are the most powerful 
weapons employed in the art of curing ; Iron is 
the principle of our blood, and forms its force 
and richness. Cinchona affords life to the 
organs and activity to their functions. 



Endorsed by the Medical Fac- 
ulty of Paris, and used with en- 
tire success for the cure of 

MALARIA, 

INDIGESTION, 
FEVER and AGUE. 
NEURALGIA, 

LOSS of APPETITE, 
POORNESS of BLOOD, 

WASTING DISEASES, 
and 

RETARDED 

CONVALESCENCE. 


E. FOUGERA & CO., Agents, No. 30 North William street, New York. 22 rue Drouot, Paris. 



656 


CURRENT NOTES. 


An Old Pacific Coast Engine. — Perhaps few of the people know that a 
very antique engine is lying useless behind the station at Long Beach, Los 
Angeles County. This engine was used in the early part of the last decade, and 
when the fireman wanted to put in any fuel the train had to be stopped while 
the fireman put in wood at the front of the engine, as the door to the furnace 
is situated there. This engine ran between Los Angeles and Long Beach before 
the Southern Pacific extended its line to that place. The cars are like street- 
cars of to-day, only about twice as long. Sometimes the passengers had to get 
out and push, as the engine was not very strong . — Pasadena Star . 

The Snake-Nut of the West Indies. — A nut which should be classed 
with such wonderful vegetable productions as the “ vegetable worm” of China, 
the “ vegetable fly” of Australia, and other plant oddities of that ilk, is the 
snake-nut of Demerara. This paradoxical vegetable is said to grow also in 
some parts of Cuba and British Guiana, the first specimen in the British Museum 
having been sent from the latter country. These remarkable nuts vary in size, 
some being as large as a goose-egg, others not larger than a walnut. The ker- 
nel of each and every one does not simply “ bear a close resemblance,” but is 
a perfect counterpart of a boa-constrictor lying coiled up as if asleep, — the 
head, general taper of the body, spots, and everything being true to life. When 
the kernel is yet unripe it may be unwound or uncoiled and straightened out. 
In this state, although it is then without the spots, the resemblance to the body, 
fangs, scales, and tail of a reptile is simply extraordinary. 

Those who can overcome the natural aversion to tasting such a thing de- 
clare that, the nut is one of fine flavor, being equal in every particular to the 
cream nut or the English walnut. — St. Louis Republic. 

The Way We Write. — About the year 450 b.c. the Ionians introduced 
the present system of writing from left to right. Previous to that date the 
custom was to run from right to left. At the same time the method known as 
the boustrophedon (that is, alternately from right to left and from left to right) 
was somewhat extensively practised. The ancient Hebrew and Greek languages 
were written from right to left until about the year 430 B.C., when the forms of 
the Greek letters were changed from uncial to the cursive, and the manner of 
writing was changed from right to left to left to right. 

No Kings Wanted. — When one remembers the ease with which General 
Boulanger rose to a dangerous eminence in France and observes the disposition 
on the part of a certain element in that country to inflate General Dodds, the 
“ hero” of the Abyssinian war, to the proportions of a Caesar, it must arouse a 
feeling of confidence and pride in the institutions and conservative spirit of our 
own country to recall the absence of any such hero-worship at the conclusion 
of our war. In our entire history only one man was ever solicited to become 
its king, and he spurned the thought as an insult to his patriotism and showed 
unmistakable grief that any of his countrymen should think so poorly of him 
as to make the offer. When Mr. Jefferson told Washington at Mount Vernon 
that an effort was still being made to monarchize the government, the old war- 
riors face assumed its sternest look, and, stretching out his arm, he said, “ I will 
pour out every drop of blood in these veins before one step shall be taken in 
that direction .” — New York World . 


CURRENT NOTES. 


657 


You Men 

Kin talk about the pies 
Your mothers used to make, 

An’ kin do a heap o’ braggin’ 

Just for old acquaintance sake. 

But there aint a man amongst 
you, 

Ef he told his story straight, 
Who wouldn’t say them lardy 
pies 

Is rather out o’ date. 

Who wouldn’t own that many nights 
They’ve kept him wide awake. 

Or give him most terrific dreams, 
Orp’r’aps an awful ache. 

And furthermore there aint a man, 
(Onless he’s mighty mean), 

But what’ll say that pastry made 
With pure, sweet COTTOLENE, 

Is better’n any other kind — 

An’ wholesomer to eat. 

An’ spite of all his Mother’s pies, 
He’ll say it can’t be beat. 

COTTOLENE 

Is the modern remedy for an old-time evil — lard. It fully supplies 
the want that lard only half supplied. It is a pure, sweet, vegetable 
product, and is at once more healthful, more delicate, more economi- 
cal than lard for shortening, frying, and for every cooking use. 
Cottolene is made of clarified cottonseed oil and refined beef suet — 
two ingredients of well-known healthfulness and purity. Every 
housewife who has the interest of her household at heart should try 
Cottolene. She will find it more economical, more healthful, most 
satisfactory in every way. 

Sold in three and five pound pails. Made only by 

N. K. Fairbank & Co., 

Chicago, St- Louis, Montreal, New York, 

Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco, &c. 




Da 

/You usa| 
MofToiSNeJ 

9 


VOL. LII.— 42 





658 


CURRENT NOTES. 


Her Beauty went with It. — F red. — “She isn’t the pretty girl she used 
to be.” 

Arthur. — “ Is that so?” 

Fred. — “ Yes. Her father lost all his money speculating.” — Truth . 

The Egyptians’ Reverence of Cats. — The cat is well known as having 
been an object of worship in Egypt. The goddess Pasht, many of whose statues 
may be seen in the British Museum, was always represented with the head of a 
cat ; a temple was dedicated to her at Beni Hassan, which is as. old as the eigh- 
teenth dynasty, 1500 years B.c. The cats that died were buried in countless 
thousands in pits near this temple, having been first of all embalmed and con- 
verted into mummies. A few years since these cat-pits were excavated, and 
many tons of the embalmed cats were broken up, shipped from Alexandria to 
Liverpool, and there ground into manure at the bone-mills of that city. When 
first dug up out of the pits each mummy was enveloped in thin cloth. In most 
of the mummies that were shipped to England the cloth had been stripped off 
by the diggers in order to obtain any trinkets or ornaments that were buried 
with the animals, and the bodies were broken up in fragments before they were 
shipped. One cargo alone was calculated to contain the remains of not less 
than one hundred and eighty thousand cats. The examination of the skulls 
proved that the cat domesticated by the Egyptians was really a North African 
species, known to the naturalists as Fells maniculata. This is rather smaller 
than our ordinary domestic cat, and of a yellowish color, with some dark stripes 
on the body. 

The domesticated cat of the Egyptians was venerated by them to an absurd 
extent. Herodotus recounts the fact that when a cat died a natural death in a 
house the inhabitants shaved off their eyebrows, and in his own quaint way 
says that when a fire occurred the people were more anxious to save their cats 
than to extinguish the conflagration. — Cincinnati Commercial Gazette . 

WEEPING WILLOWS. 

The first to don the green at Winter’s death, 

Last, ere he lives again, to lay it by, 

Like tears are ye, that spring with man’s first breath 
And loyally attend him till he die. 

M. A. de Wolfe Howe, Jun., 

in Harper’s Weekly . 


An Antique Survivor.— Christian Conrad, of Delaware County, Iowa> 
who is one hundred and thirteen years of age, remembers having seen Washing- 
ton. “ It was in Philadelphia,” he says, “ at the close of his last term as Pres- 
ident. They had a great crowd, and the road was filled with people for eleven 
miles. General Washington appeared at the head of the procession, and was 
accompanied by thirty-two of his old war-officers and generals, and all on horse- 
back. He rode a dapple gray horse. He appeared to be a tali man, smooth 
face, large nose, and such a man as would be noticed in a crowd. General 
Washington made a speech that day, and I heard him. I remember that he 
praised his generals and told the people to be loyal and true to the government.” 
— New York Tribune. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


659 


Consumption 

may be averted, and now is a good 
time to begin the work of averting it. 
If your lungs are weak and your 
tendency is toward consumption 
you should think now about pre- 
paring yourself for Winters strain. 
Don't wait until cold weather sets in, 
but begin at once with 

Scott’s Emulsion 

of Cod-liver Oil, with hypophosphites 
of lime and soda. Scott’s Emulsion 
will nourish you, build you up, and 
make your lungs strong so that colds 
will not Settle there. Physicians , the 
world over, endorse it. 

Coughs and Colds 

and Throat Troubles are speedily cured by Scott’s Emulsion. It is a 
rich fat food that enriches the blood, cures Blood Diseases, creates 
Healthy Flesh and makes the skin clear and natural in color. 

NOTICE! Why should you go contrary to the Phy- 
sician’s advice by allowing some inferior -preparation to 
be substituted for Scott’s Emulsion? 

Prepared by SCOTT & BOWNE, N. Y. 


Druggists sell it* 


660 


CURRENT NOTES. 


A Noteworthy Carpet. — A curious history is attached to a carpet used 
recently in the production at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre of the comic opera 
“Poor Jonathan.” When the star of Napoleon III. was at its zenith an 
Aubusson carpet of a magnificent description was ordered by General Fleury 
for the chateau at Compi£gne, but when it was seen by the Emperor directions 
were given that it should be transferred to the Tuileries. In 1871, during the 
Commune, the carpet was appropriated, and with other artistic works despatched 
to Austria. The carpet has since had several owners, but owing to its size has 
proved practically useless. To its present possessor it was recently sold for 
£150, believed to be about an eighth part of its original value. So much is 
thought of this carpet, which in “ Poor Jonathan” will be laid down in the 
reception-room of the millionaire Vandergold by the manager of the Prince of 
Wales, that he has had the dresses of the characters appearing in this scene 
made to harmonize with its colors. Such a circumstance is probably unique in 
theatrical annals. — London Chronicle. 

Some improvements in prospect at St. John’s College, Cambridge, England, 
will require the demolition of the rooms occupied by the poet Wordsworth 
during his life as an undergraduate of the college, 1787-91. These apartments 
have of late years been used as store-rooms. According to Miss Fenwick’s 
description, written in 1839, they were “ the meanest and most dismal in the 
whole university,” but the poet once recorded the fact that he was as “joyous 
as a lark” when he lived there. — New York World. 

An Indian Komance. — The Dowager Maharanee of Mysore, who recently 
died, had a remarkable career. When scarcely ten years of age she insisted on 
sharing all her younger brother’s studies, and in five years she mastered San- 
skrit, Canarese, and Marathi, while not neglecting music, drawing, and needle- 
work. When sixteen she was chosen as the fourth bride of the late Maharaja, 
but before she could be sent for, her father, who was a petty official, was sum- 
moned to court to answer for the short revenue of his village. Only when 
ordered to be whipped was it discovered who he was. He was forgiven, the 
marriage was celebrated on the first lucky day, and the young queen’s benign 
influence was at once and thenceforth felt in the affairs of the state. — Pall Mall 
Gazette. 

Absorption of Gold in India. — Between 1859 and 1889, thirty years, 
or less than half one lifetime, India has absorbed £117,000,000 in gold and 
£227,000,000 in silver, or £344,000,000 in all. What has become of the silver 
we do not exactly know, though it is certain that a great proportion of it is 
hoarded as fixed and visible wealth ; but about the destination of the gold there 
is no doubt whatever. The people have got the whole of it in their own hands, 
for it is not in circulation, and are using it either in ornaments, kept, be it 
observed, to pawn in extremity, or as hoarded treasure in coin, such as lies 
under almost every peasant’s floor in the Punjab and Eastern Bengal. India is 
a treasure-house of gold ; yet a man may live fifty years in the British provinces 
and never see an ounce. — London Spectator. 

It is difficult to understand how a Chinese theatrical company can go 
through one of their serial plays without getting all mixed up on their cues. — 
Detroit Free Press. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


661 


Thanksgiving Dinners. 

North, South, East and West contribute representative Menus. 

“ Yankee .” — By Mrs. Carrie M. Dearborn , Principal of the Boston Cooking School. 

Oysters on Half Shell — Clear Soup with Custard — Olives, Pickles, Salted Almonds, Celery- 
Fresh Boiled Cod, Oyster Sauce, Potato Balls — Roast Turkey, Giblet Gravy, Cranberry Sauce, Mashed 
Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Squash, Turnip, Creamed Onions ; Sorbet — Broiled Ducks, Orange Sauce — 
Lettuce Salad, Cheese Straws — Plum Pudding Mince Pie, Apple Pie, Edam Cheese — Assorted Nuts, 
Raisins — Coffee. 

* * Southern.” — By Marion Harland , Author of u Common Sense in the Household 
Raw Oysters on the Half Shell — Old Hare Soup — Rock Fish (boiled) with Egg Sauce, Potatoes au nature l 
— Fried Chicken, Escalloped Oysters (baked in scallop shells), Black Eyed Peas, Stewed Tomatoes — 
Roast Turkey with Cranberry Sauce, Sweet Potatoes, Mashed Turnips, Boiled Ham (at the heacfofthe 
table) — Sherbet — Partridges (quail at the North), roasted whole, each with an oyster inside. Salsify 
Fritters, Currant Jelly and Sweet Pickles — Cold Slaw, Crackers. Cheese and Olives — Apple Meringue 
Pie, Transparent Pudding, Plum Pudding — Ice Cream, Snow Balls and other Cakes, Wine Jelly, Blanc 
Mange — Apples, Oranges, Grapes, Nuts, Raisins — Black Coffee — Hors PCEuvres , Olives, 
Bon-Bons, several kinds of Pickles, Candied Orange Peel and Ginger. 

“ Western .” — By Miss Campbell , Friendly Inn Cooking School , Cleveland . Ohio. 

Oyster Soup — Cran- 


Bread and cake 
raised with 

(gvdands Bakto 

keep 



Powd 


their 

freshness and flavor. 

The reason is, the leaven- 
ing power of Cleveland’s is 
produced by pure cream of 
tartar and pure soda, nothing 
else; — not by alum, ammonia, 
or any other adulterant. 

Cleveland' s baking powder , “ pure and sure.” 

A quarter pound can mailed free on receipt of 15 cents in stamps. 
Cleveland Baking Powder Co., 81 Fulton St., New York. 


berry Jelly, Pickles, 
Olives — Hot Roast Tur- 
key, Baked Sausages, 
Venison Pie, Cold Roast 
Turkey, Pickled Oys- 
ters, Cold Biscuit, Hot 
Squash Muffins, Salsify 
Fritters, MashedTurnips 
— Celery, Chicken Salad, 
Pickled Quinces — Pump- 
kin Pie, Mince Pie, Apple 
Turnovers, Cheese — 
Fruit — Coffee. 

“ New York .” — By 
Mrs. Emma P. Ewing , 
Prin. Chautauqua School 
of Cookery. 

Clear Soup — Celery, 
Italian Sticks, Olives — 
Scalloped Oysters, Cold 
Slaw — Roast Turkey, 
Giblet Gravy, Cranberry 
Sauce, Mashed Turnip, 
Boiled White Potato, 
Browned Sweet Potato — 
Lettuce Salad, Salted Al- 
monds, Cheese Straws — 
Mince Pie, Pumpkin Pie, 
Pine Apple Cheese — 
Mixed Fruit — Coffee. 

“Philadelphia .” — By 
Mrs. Rorer , Principal 
Philadelphia School of 
Cookery. 

Oysters on Half Shell 
— Clear Soup — Celery, 
Olives, Almonds — Roast 
Turkey, Bread Stuffing, 
Oyster Sauce, Mashed 
Potatoes, Boiled Onions, 
Cranberry Jelly — Celery 
Salad, Wafers — Mince 
Pie, Pumpkin Custard, 
Cheese — Coffee — Nuts, 
Fruit, Raisins. 

Our Cook Book mailed 
free. Send stamp and 
address. Cleveland Bak- 
ing Powder Co., 81 Ful- 
ton St. s New York. 


662 


CURRENT NOTES. 


In support of the accounts of Edwin Booth’s excessive fondness for tobacco 
it is said that when he was on the boards the great tragedian directed his valet 
to stand at one of the stage entrances and hold a big black cigar with a light, so 
that the moment the scene was over Mr. Booth could enjoy his favorite weed. 
The cigars he smoked were marvels of strength, and when not at the theatre he 
consumed them after the fashion of a German chain-smoker, lighting a fresh 
one from the stump of the last. — New York World. 

In the Thick of the Fight. — That was a good story which the Rev. C. 
J. K. Jones of Louisville told in a Boston pulpit the other day. He said, — 

“ An alarmist always reminds me of a friend of mine, who was a commander 
at the battle of Round Mountain. It was a hot fight, — one of the hottest of the 
war. At a particularly intense part cf the action my friend stood beside his 
horse, scanning the field with his glass and directing the troops. He told me 
it seemed as if the fire of the whole Confederacy was centred on him, the bullets 
thick around him. 

“ Suddenly he heard a minie ball singing in the air, and he felt something 
strike his leg, but the occasion was urgent, and he kept up his glass. There 
was another ‘ ping-g-g,’ and he felt another strike. And so it continued. 

“ The captain at last lifted up his hand and prayed, * 0 Lord, I can go 
home to my wife and children without either of my legs, but, 0 Lord, let me 
get home.’ 

“ Finally there came the shouts of victory. The battle was won. With a 
long-drawn sigh the captain turned. He shouted to his orderly at a little dis- 
tance, ‘ Fm wounded, Jim. Come and help me on my horse ; I must go home. 
It’s my last battle.’ 

“ ‘ No, I guess not/ replied the orderly. 

“ 4 What’s the matter? Come, hurry up : I’m wounded.’ 

“ ‘ If you want me to help you, come here,’ sang out the orderly. 

“ ‘But what’s the trouble? Why can’t you- come here? Don’t you see I’m 
wounded and almost dying?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, no, you are not,’ sang out the orderly. 

“ ‘Come here instantly, you rascal,’ shouted the commander. 

“ ‘No, I don’t: that’s the biggest nest of yellow-jacks there I ever saw in 
my life,’ was the final laughing reply of the orderly. 

“ The storming swarm of hornets were the only minie balls that had struck 
him.” — Boston Journal. 

The Woman of the Future.— Susan B. Anthony is of opinion that we 
are on the verge of an era of unmarried women. Our civilization, she says, is 
changing. Daughters cannot be supported at home, and there is nothing there 
to busy them. The women used to spin and weave, make carpet and soap, but 
now all that is done for them in the factories. Young men do not make enough 
money to support their wives, and there is such a craze for dissipation among 
them that the women would rather go into a store for almost nothing than to 
marry. — Reading Times . 

School-Master. — “ Why was it that his great discovery was not properly 
appreciated until long after Columbus was dead?” 

Nineteenth-Century School-Boy. — “ Because he didn’t advertise, sir.”— 
Tit-Bits. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


663 


“ We are advertised by our loving friends.” 


Mellin’s Food Children 



HAROLD AND RUTH. 


Give the Baby MelSin’s Food 

If you wish your infant to be well nourished, healthy, 
bright, and active, and to grow up happy, 
robust, and vigorous. 

OUR BOOK FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF MOTHERS, 

“The Care and Feeding of Infants f 

Will be mailed free to any address on request. 


THE DOLIBER=GOODALE CO., Boston, Mass 


664 


CURRENT NOTES. 


In their biographical sketch of William Blake Messrs. Ellis and Yeats 
mentioned the fact that the poet’s real family name was O’Neill, but added no 
evidence. The story of the change of name is this: William Blake’s grand- 
father, John O’Neill, after the death of his first wife, got into financial trouble, 
and married a Dublin wine-shop-keeper named Ellen Blake. He adopted her 
name as his own, and his son by his first wife — that is, the poet’s father— also 
took the name of Blake. The family of Ellen Blake was in the wine trade at 
Malaga, in Spain. 

A linguist says that “ hello” is almost a new word, as it differs in form, 
sound, and use from the old word “ halloo.” It is merely mentioned by Web- 
ster, and the searcher for information is referred to “ halloo,” which is defined 
as an interjection, a loud call or the noise of the hunt. The forms there given 
— “ halloa” and “ halloo” — are not well adapted to the American tongue, neither 
are they susceptible to the variety of expression that can be given to “ hello.” 
Probably the word halloo grew out of the call “ hail, oh !” which was almost 
universally used by wayfarers in olden time when halting at a house along the 
way. “Hail, oh! the house.!” was another form quite common in early times. 
This would quite naturally take the form of “ halloo ! the house 1” 

A Composer and his Works. — “But it must be a satisfaction to sit out 
one of your own works and know that so much beauty and loveliness is your 
creation, that you have enriched and made the world happier by just so much.” 

Massenet bowed. “ Thank you,” he said, simply ; “ you are very kind to 
say so ; but I never hear my own operas. I attend the rehearsals. I make 
things go as well as they ever can go, and then the opera belongs to the public. 
I am only the father whose daughter has married. My child is mine, but 
belongs to another.” 

“Still, have you no paternal longing to see that child again?” 

“ No, never. I do not enter a theatre to hear my own music, except on 
compulsion.” — Paris Letter in New York Tribune . 

A Queer Funeral Direction. — The story is told of a certain Frenchman 
who had been a great collector of coins. By his will he directed that his ob- 
sequies should be performed with every accompaniment calculated to inspire 
mirthful feelings. His body was to be wrapped in tanned pig-skin and buried 
coffinless in a standing position upon a pile of charcoal. Laurel branches were 
to be carried by the mourners, and on returning from the church they were to 
throw open the chambers in which his treasures were deposited and all comers 
were welcome to help themselves as they pleased to the contents. It was a sore 
disappointment to the public, however, to find that before they were admitted 
the servants of the deceased had decamped with everything that was portable. 
— Cassell's. 

The Confederate Flag. — W. W. Davies, “ messenger to the late Presi- 
dent Davis,” writes, “ The stars and bars were used at Bull Run, and on account 
of their similarity to the old Union flag caused some confusion, and it was found 
that some change should be made ; hence the adoption of what is now known 
as the battle-flag. This battle-flag was not designed by General Beauregard, as 
generally believed, but he was one of three who accepted the design.” 


CURRENT NOTES. 


665 


WASHING 

POWDER 


Attacks on 

W ashing-Powders 

don’t affect Pearline. Pearline is a wash- 
ing-compound, in powder form, to be sure, 
but quite a different thing. It’s made so 
that it acts upon dirt as noth- 
ing else will, but can't possibly 
do any harm to substance, 
hands or fabric. 

Soap-makers are advertis- 
ing against washing-powders, 
claiming that they ruin the 
clothes. They’re more than 
half right. But chemical analysis and the experience of 
millions of women prove that Pearline hasn’t the power to 
harm clothes that soap has. And it saves all that ruinous 
rubbing that you have to use with soap, besides. 

Peddlers and some unscrupulous grocers will tell you, 
“this is as good as” or “the same as Pearline. ” IT’S 
W O j A V_y> FALSE — Pearline is never peddled, if your grocer sends 
you an imitation, be honest — send it back. 396 JAMES PYLE. N e«r York. 



NO GOOD THING CAN BE HAD 
FOR NOTHING; 

but things of equal value are cheaper in some places than others — every- 
thing depends upon the conditions. 

Life Insurance is worth all it costs only when the cost is controlled 
by intelligence, integrity, and mutuality of interest, for then it costs least 1 

Look at one form of insurance : 

If you pay $50 per year for 20 years, you will get $1000 at the end 
of that time, meanwhile having your life insured. The insurance has 
therefore cost the interest on your premiums. Not a bad thing in the 
most unfavorable phase. 

But suppose, what has been true time and again in the PENN 
MUTUAL, that your net payments averaged $37.50 per year, or a total 
of $750 in exchange for the $1000 you receive. Here is insurance and 
interest too ! 

Suppose, again, you are indifferent whether you pay $37.50 or $50 
per year, and choosing the latter allow your over-payments to accumulate 
through the whole period. This would probably net you $1658. 

Better look the matter up. A company stands ready to gratify your 
curiosity and your needs — either or both. Address the 

PENN MUTUAL LIFE, 

921-3-5 Chestnut St., Philadelphia. 


666 


CURRENT NOTES. 


The Latest about Suspenders. — “I believe most of the people who 
invent new-fangled suspenders and take out patents for them are crazy,” said a 
customer in a men’s furnishing store the other day. “ Can’t you give me a pair 
of old-fashion suspenders like those you sold me ten years ago?” 

“ Yes,” said the dealer, “ I can ; but these I am showing you are the latest 
things out.” 

“ But, confound it, man, I do not want the latest things out,” roared the 
customer; “all I need is a pair of ordinary, every-day suspenders, Guyots I 
think they are called, and you show me a crazy sort of thing with a lot of 
wheels and pulleys and weights and things. Why, it would take a man a week 
to learn to get into that thing, and, once in, it would take a week to get out. 
Every time I come here to get a pair of suspenders you try to sell me some- 
thing different, and usually it is a new patent of some sort. Now, you 
know as well as I do that there has not been an improvement made in sus- 
penders in fifty years that has amounted to a row of pins, and there is no sus- 
pender made which can compare with the genuine Guyots made in Paris by 
Charles Guyot. And, although you change your entire stock of suspenders 
every little while, you will, I am sure, own up that I am right.” 

“Yes, you are right,” the dealer replied, “ perfectly right, but we outfitters 
must keep up with the times. These cranks keep on bringing out new things, 
each new suspender more complicated and more idiotic than the one which went 
before. But a fancy article commands a fancy price. Yet all first-class 
dealers must keep the Guyots for thousands of customers who, like you, are 
not willing to make experiments, and stick to the Guyots, which are universally 
acknowledged to be the very best suspenders made for all seasons of the year.” 

His Pride. — A gentleman who once made a tour of the Tennessee moun- 
tain-district says that the lameness of his horse compelled him to stay all day 
at the rude home of one of the mountaineers, who, in a shiftless, half-hearted 
way, cultivated a few acres of corn-land in the valley. 

During the day the man’s son, a long, leathery, bony young fellow about 
twenty years old, and at the least six feet and two inches tall, was told to go to 
the “ settlemint,” three miles distant, for some coffee. 

His costume consisted of a “ hick’ry” shirt and a pair of cotton trousers 
rolled to the knees above his bare feet. Before starting he went into the cabin 
for a moment, and when he came out he had added a paper collar and a huge 
brass breast-pin to his attire, whereupon his father said, partly to his son and 
partly to the stranger, — 

“ Thar ye air Rg’in, rigged out in all that thar finery ! I tell ye, mister, that 
thar boy’s pride is bound ter be the ruination of ’im yit. All he thinks of is 
finery. Fust thing he knows he’ll be gittin’ tew proud tew go tew meetin’ 
bar’ -footed.” — Youth’s Companion. 

“Rattlesnake Pete,” of Oil City, Pennsylvania, as his name would in- 
dicate, is a man of somewhat gruesome tastes. He is now proudly wearing a 
double-breasted sack-coat and a pair of trousers made of rattlesnake-skins so 
arranged that the yellow and black stripes form a pleasing effect ; that is, Pete 
thinks they do. It took him four years to gather the skins for this suit, and he 
had to kill one hundred and twenty-five snakes to do it. The buttons of his 
coat are rattlesnake heads mounted with gold. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


667 


CAUTION. 

The genuine Bell-cap-sic 
have a picture of a bell on the 
back cloth— look for it. 


NO FAMILY 

should be without 
Dr. Crosvenor’s 

Bell-cap-sic 
Plasters, 

a safeguard against conges- 
tions, inflammations, or op- 
pressions of the lungs, pneu- 
monia and pleurisy. These 
diseases should be treated 
without delay, lest they 
develop dangerous symp- 
toms unexpectedly. 

Bell-cap-sic Plasters 

are quick in action and 
lasting in effect. Invaluable 
in treatment of rheuma- 
tisms, sprains, strains and 
all lamenesses. They cure 
by removing the cause. 

FOR WOMEN, 

Bell-cap-sic Plasters are 
invaluable; they rest the 
muscles, relieve tired, 
aching backs, and drive 
away pains peculiar to 
the sex. 

MEN 

find instant relief from 

Druggists Everywhere, or y P 'Jr ba «° and 

J. M. GROSVENOR &CO., 

Boston, Mass. 




66 66 


TEN REASONS FOR USING 

DOBBINS ELECTRIC SOAP. 

THE REASON WHY it is best from a sanitary point of view, is because of its absolute 

44 it is unscented, is because nothing is used in its manufacture that 
must be hidden or disguised. 

44 it is cheapest to use, is because it is harder and dryer than ordinary 
soap, and does not waste away ; also because it is not filled with 
rosin and clay as make-weights. 

44 no boiling of clothes is needed, is because there is no adulteration 
in it — it being absolutely pure, can do its own work. 

44 it leaves clothes washed wi h it whiter and sweeter than any other 
soap, is because it contains no adulteration to yellow them. 


66 66 


66 


it washes flannels without shrinking, bringing them out soft, white, 
and fleecy, is because it is free from rosin, which hardens, yellows, 
and mats together all woollen fibres, making them harsh and coarse. 

three bars of it will make a gallon of elegant white soft-soap if 
simply shaved up and thoroughly dissolved by boiling in a gallon 
of water, is that it contains pure and costly ingredients found in no 
other soap. 

it won't injure the finest lace or the most delicate fabric, is that all 
these ingredients are harmless. 

we paid $50,000 for the formula twenty- five years ago, is that we 
knew there was no other soap like it. 

so many millions of women use it, is that they have found it to be the 
best and most economical, and absolutely unchanging in quality, 


ASK YOIIR GROCER FOR IT, 


DOBBINS SOAP MFC. CO. 

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 


668 


CURRENT NOTES. 


I 


Where Frank R. Stockton Lives. — Follow the Morristown road, past 
one country-seat after another, for a quarter of a mile, and you come to Kitchell 
Avenue. You are in Morristown now, but in reality nearer Madison. Turn to 
the left, and the first place you come to is surrounded by a low stone wall. 
Through iron gates a gravelled road- way leisurely turns, and, passing beneath 
huge evergreens, reaches a yellow-and-white frame house, with a veranda in 
front, and a tower at the farther end. Opposite the door-way, beneath the great 
trees, are a rustic seat and a rustic table. Between two of the trees is swung a 
hammock. And in pleasant weather Frank R. Stockton lies in the hammock 
dictating his fanciful tales to his wife, who sits on the rustic settee. It is an 
ideal home for an author, situated upon an eminence commanding miles of 
country, removed from the main road, and surrounded by a grove. — Newark 
Advertiser . 

DEATH. 

Be patient and be wise ! The eyes of Death 
Look on us with a smile: her soft caress, 

That stills the anguish and that stops the breath, 

Is Nature’s ordination, meant to bless 
Our mortal woes with peaceful nothingness. 

Be not afraid ! The Power that made the light 
In your kind eyes, and set the stars on high, 

And gave us love, meant not that all should die 
Like a brief day-beam quenched in sudden night. 

Think that to die is but to fall asleep 

And wake refreshed where the new morning breaks 

And golden day her rosy vigor takes 

From winds that fan Eternity’s far height 

And the white crests of God’s perpetual deep. 

William Winter, in New York Tribune. 

In Holland the following names for the months are in use : January — 
Lauromaand, chilly month; February — Sproklemaand, vegetation month; 
March — Lentmaaud, spring month ; April — Grasmaand, grass month ; May — 
Blowmaand, flower month; June — Zomermaand, summer month ; July — Hooy- 
maand, hay month ; August — Oostmaand, harvest month ; September — Herfts- 
maand, autumn month; October — Wynmaand, wine month ; November — Slag- 
maand, slaughter month ; December — Wintermaand, winter month. 

Easy when You Know How. — Casey was digging a ditch in the street 
in front of his house for the purpose of making a connection with the sewer. 
He had a large pile of dirt thrown up in the road-way, and he was rapidly 
increasing it, when stopped by a policeman. 

“ Phat are yez doin’ there, Casey ?” 

“ Don’t yer see Oi’m diggin’ ?” 

“ Hov yez a permit to blockade the sthrate with that pile of dirt?” 

“ Oi hov not.” 

“ Thin don’t yer know that yez hov no right to put thot dirt there ?” 

“Phat will Oi do wid it, thin?” inquired the puzzled Casey. 

“Oh, jist dig another hole an’ t’ro it in,” answered the man of the brass 
buttons as he sauntered slowly away, swinging his club. — Boston Journal. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


669 


The Jackson Sanatorium, 

DANSVlMiE, LIVINGSTON COUNTY, NEW YORK- 

y~T DELIGHTFUL home for those 
\1 seeking health, rest, or recrea- 
tion. Under the personal care 
of experienced physicians. 

Elegant modern fire-proof main 
building and twelve cottages, com- 
plete in all appliances for health and 
comfort. Extensive apartments for 
treatment arranged for individual 
privacy. Skilled attendants. All 
forms of baths; Electricity, Massage, 
Swedish Movements, etc. Delsarte 
System of Physical Culture. Fre- 
quent Lectures, and Lessons on 
Health Topics. 

Especial provision for rest and quiet, also for recreation, amusement, and regular out-door life. 

Culinary Department wider supervision of Mrs. 1 Zinina JF*. Eiviny, Super- 
intendent of the Chautauqua Cooking School. 

Hillside location in Woodland Park, overlooking extended views of the famous Genesee 
Valley region, unsurpassed for health and beauty. Charming walks and drives. Lakes, glens, 
and waterfalls in immediate vicinity. Clear, dry atmosphere, free from fogs and malaria. Pure 
spring water from rocky heights. Perfect drainage and sewerage. 

Steam heat, open fires, electric bells, safety elevator, telegraph, telephone, etc. 

For illustrated pamphlet, testimonials, and other information, address 

Mention this Magazine. J. ARTHUR JACKSON, Secretary, Dansville, New York. 



Established 1858. 



Are You Married? — It is the small annoyances that worry, — sour milk 
overnight, no milkman in the morning ; no cream for the coffee ; no milk for 
the baby. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is always ready for 
use. Grocers and druggists. 


670 


CURRENT NOTES. 


WHY DO NOT MORE PEOPLE WINTER IN COLORADO? 

Denver, Col. 

T HE above question was recently asked in my hearing, and such an earnest 
desire shown to know the real reason for so little attention being paid the 
delights of Colorado’s winters, that I determined to reply with my own reasons, 
based on personal observations during a residence in the Centennial State of 
fifteen and a half years. 

Allow me to explain right here that I have studied the published facts, 
signal service reports, and every climatic map or other document bearing on 
the sanitary advantages set forth by Florida, Texas, Southern California, Ari- 
zona, and New Mexico, that I could secure ; so, as I have studied personally Col- 
orado’s climate, with special reference to its sanitary advantages — studied con- 
scientiously, morning, noon, and night, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, 
I have at the same time been comparing what I saw, felt, and experienced, with 
the published reports of those localities advertised the world over as of special 
value for the winter sojourn of invalids suffering from some form of lung or 
throat trouble. Before drawing upon my own personal observations and 
deductions regarding the superiority of Colorado’s winter climate for invalids, 
I will give the results of the observations regarding the matter of Drs. H. K. 
Steele, F. J. Bancroft, N. K. Morris, B. A. Wheeler, and S. A. Fisk, who repre- 
sent different systems of medicine, all eminent and popular physicians of many 
years’ practice in Denver, and all refugees in Colorado from consumption, I 
believe, with one exception. Through many years of the most careful scien- 
tific study of every variety of pulmonary trouble, the above-named physicians 
have been able to demonstrate the effect of the climatic conditions peculiar to 
the so-called “Arid Region.” With one accord, and in harmony with many 
other noted and eminently trustworthy physicians, they declare most emphat- 
ically “ that the improvement of invalids suffering from consumption is more 
marked in the winter than in the summer.” Yet the general opinion, the 
accepted theory, is so universal that the reason for the wide discrepancy 
between the true and the false idea may well be earnestly sought. 

Regarding the general belief that Colorado’s climate during the summer 
months is more beneficial than during the winter season, I think the error sprang 
from two false impressions. The first apparently had its origin in the now 
exploded theory that a warm air, a temperature of the atmosphere corresponding 
with a Northern summer, was likely to prove the best remedy for weak or dis- 
eased lungs. 

Careful scientific investigation showed the false base upon which the theory 
was founded, within the past few years. 

When there is a possibility of recovery, every well-informed physician 
these days sends his consumptive patient to a high, dry altitude, where the 
quickened circulation of the blood is a mechanical aid to purifying the system 
of morbid secretions, stimulating the appetite, thrilling the nervous system 
with an ecstasy of hope and courage that it is impossible to explain to one who 
has never experienced the agony of a despairing farewell to all that made life 
worth living at the East, and a return from Colorado with health and strength 
that seemed but one remove from the miraculous. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


671 


Another reason for the feeling so general against the climate of Colorado 
in winter is, no doubt, the fact of most people at a distance from that State 
forming their impression of the temperature from reading or hearing reports 
of experiences with cold and snow away up on the high mountains. I remem- 
ber of a New Orleans gentleman writing a report for the Times- Democrat of 
that city, in which he described the fun his party had “ wading in fresh snow 
ankle deep on Pike’s Peak the 3d of September.” The editor wrote quite an 
extended editorial, reminding New Orleans people of the great contrast between 
the very warm weather which allowed them to sit comfortably out of doors, 
while up in Colorado people huddled around their fires in-doors, with snow 
several inches deep out of doors. 

There are within the limits of the State of Colorado twenty-five mountain- 
peaks higher than Pike’s Peak, and, of course, with numberless other peaks 
covered with snow by October, it is little wonder that people who do not study 
the situation cannot understand that with fresh snow, like a great white bed- 
blanket, spread out in plain view from Denver, the weather enjoyed in that city 
and all along the plains and in the low foot-hills is like that of Louisville. Ky., 
or Cincinnati, O. Then, when the short winter does come to Denver, Colorado 
Springs, Greeley, Boulder, Fort Collins, Pueblo, Golden, and other localities 
corresponding with the above-named places, there is but little snow, and what 
little sleighing there is occasionally taxes the sleigh-rider at the rate of six 
dollars per hour for his short-lived enjoyment of the old-fashioned down-East 
sport, where three months of good sleighing is common. Then the accom- 
panying huge snow-drifts to slowly melt make two months of spring mud while 
the frost is coming out of the ground. Horrible experiences arise in my mind of 
country roads, when I thought the only relief possible was the invention of a 
flying-machine. Riding during those horrid spring break-ups was no comfort 
to me, as my heart always ached for the poor horses. 

Throughout the plains and low foot-hills portion of Colorado the average 
annual precipitation of moisture (including both snow and rainfall) is only 14J 
inches, and 2J inches of that amount falls during the month of May. 

My first three years in Colorado were spent twelve miles out on the Great 
American Desert, east of Denver. I had read so much laudatory of everything 
in Colorado, and listened to such extravagant praises of everything within its 
borders, as to arouse a feeling of combativeness, — a disposition to dispute some 
of the extravagant claims to superiority of every condition, under all circum- 
stances, and in every time and place. I believed there were plenty of places, 
regions without number, that could show natural advantages equal and superior 
to Colorado, if only the search for such localities was honestly made and then 
truthful reports made. Such were the feelings that I carried with me out 
twelve miles east of Denver fifteen years ago last November. Friends did 
manifest a kind sympathy for the lonely hours of ranch life in winter, with no 
neighbors within a mile, and they too busy to be neighborly. But never while 
life lasts shall I forget the revelations of Colorado’s glorious climate made by 
personal experience and careful study, while my recollections of Wisconsin and 
Illinois winters were vividly impressed upon my mind by personal experi- 
ences of their general disagreeableness. The nights were sometimes pretty 
cold, but almost the entire months of December, January, and February some 
part of the day the weather was warm enough to sit out of doors a portion of 
the time. The little snow that fell quickly melted away under the bright 


672 


CURRENT NOTES. 


rays of the sun or was absorbed by the dry, sandy soil, with no mud to mar the 
pleasure of a ride to the city. But the heavenly revelations of glorified beauty 
at each new sun rising and sunsetting seemed to show a new page of the won- 
ders which no man can describe. The magnitude, the inexhaustible variety of 
changing colors and varying forms revealed by a view of nearly three hundred 
miles of the snowy range of the highest portion of the Rocky Mountains, is a 
display of grandeur, gorgeous beauty, and combination of the greatest number 
of the most marvellous works of the Creator to be found combined and possible 
to be enjoyed at one time in all the round world. If there is another single 
locality that can show so much of the experiences which go to make up the most 
delightful all-the-year-round living (considering all recognized sources of 
enjoyment) as the plains region within sight of the Rocky Mountains, I cer- 
tainly have never been able to learn of it. I believe this region will within a 
few years lead every other locality in the world for its sanitary benefits, as well 
as its profitable light out-of-door industries peculiarly well adapted to women 
and children, as well as invalid men. The lands lying within plain view of the 
mountains, and within easy reach of them, for pleasure and diversion, offer a 
greater number of sources of pleasure, health, and profit, with fewer drawbacks 
and disadvantages, than can be found grouped together at this time in any 
other part of our own or any other country. 

The above expression of opinion is founded entirely upon my personal 
observation, after a residence and careful study of every influence bearing upon 
the subject during three years on a ranch twelve miles due east of Denver, 
and continued consideration of the subject during the past twelve years, while 
living in or near Denver. 

When I know of invalids suffering with incipient consumption going to a 
damp, low-lying coast region to spend their winters, I feel to ask God for His 
aid to open the way by means of which I can help build up resorts and com- 
fortable accommodations, when I know so well that almost certain cure awaits 
those who will breathe the pure air and enjoy the almost perpetual sunshine of 
the western edge of the Great American Desert. 

As to the means of getting to Colorado from the East, no country is more 
thoroughly equipped with railroads. Denver is the natural centre for the great 
lines running west from Chicago and St. Louis, the most important road being 
the Burlington Route, which is the short line and the best maintained. 

Olive Wright. 

The First Menu Card. — It was Duke Henry of Brunswick who was first 
observed in the intervals of a banquet to scan carefully a long strip of paper by 
the side of his plate, and when the curious guests ventured to inquire into the 
nature of his studies he explained that it was a sort of programme of the dishes 
which he had commanded from the cook, to the intent that if some delicacy 
which especially appealed to him were marked for a late stage in the repast he 
might carefully reserve his appetite for it. The simplicity and beauty of the 
idea appealed instantly to the good duke’s convives, and the menu card from 
that moment became an institution. — Season. 

Country Uncle. — “ Bless you, my boy, there’s no end of fun in the 
country. You must come up when it’s the season for husking-bees.” 

City Nephew (nervously). — “ Deah me! I shouldn’t care evah to husk a 
bee unless some one would first wemove the sting.” 


CURRENT NOTES. 


673 



GIVE NO QUARTER 


to the enemy — Dirt 
Give the quarter to 
your grocer for a 
Four-Pound Package 
of GOLD DUST 
Washing Powder, 
and see the dirt fly. 


Gold Dust Washing Powder 


is a -wonder of effectiveness and economy which no 
modem housekeeper can afford to do without. Costs 
much less and goes much farther than any other 
kind. Sold everywhere. 

Made only by N. K. FAIRBANK & CO., Chicago, 

St. Louis, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Montreal. 


PROVIDENT LIFE AND TRUST CO. 
of Philadelphia. 

Safe Investments. Low Rate of Mortality. Low Expense Rate. 
Unsurpassed in everything which makes Life Insurance reliable and 
moderate in cost. 

Has never in its entire history contested a death loss. 



Crystal Pepsin Tablets are nature’s only cure for dyspepsia and indigestion. 
They prevent dulness after eating, and induce a refreshed feeling of renewed 
energy. Delivered by mail to any post-office in the United States on receipt 
of fifty cents in stamps. Samples mailed free. Address the Carl L. Jensen 
Company, 400 N. Third Street, Philadelphia, Pa. For sale at all druggists’. 
Vol. LIL — 43 


674 


CURRENT NOTES. 


New York City’s Health Commissioner on Disinfectants. — Dr. 
Edson says Platt’s Chlorides is the best. In an extended article on “ Disinfec- 
tion and Sanitary Precautions,” in a recent number of The Doctor of Hygiene, 
Dr. Cyrus Edson, Health Commissioner of the Board of Health, New York 
City, gives very good advice relative to the proper safeguards to be employed 
in order that good health may be maintained and epidemic or contagious dis- 
eases avoided. His remarks, although designed for a period when there is fear 
of contagious disease, apply equally to the hot weather, when a neglect of sani- 
tary precautions will result in what are known as “ summer diseases.” 

Referring to the importance of thorough disinfection, and the employ- 
ment of such chemicals as are best known and to be relied upon as true germ- 
killers, and after stating how to prepare and employ different crude materials, 
he adds, “ In case these mixtures cannot be made for any reason, as, for ex- 
ample, the trouble and bother involved, Platt’s Chlorides is the safest and best 
of the specially prepared disinfecting solutions now on the market.” 

It is gratifying to us and undoubtedly to most of our readers to feel that 
this well-known and so universally employed disinfectant is thus endorsed by 
one of such high authority and of such great experience in matters of domestic 
sanitation. Platt’s Chlorides is a clean, nice, and unobjectionable preparation ; 
a liquid without odor or color, cheap, powerful, and deservedly popular, always 
ready to do its work thoroughly and well. 

Translations of Fictitious Books.— M. Alphonse Daudet is justly in- 
dignant at the discovery on a bookstall on the quays of a novel in German, 
called “Frau Putiphar,” purporting to be the translation of one of his works. 
The author of “Sapho” and the “Immortel” is, however, not surprised at the 
fraud. He says that there exists in Germany a band of literary pirates, who 
manufacture novels, not only in the name of M. Daudet himself, but also in the 
names of other notable French fictionists like Zola, Bourget, Marcel Prevost, 
and Edmond de Goncourt. Some of the pages in “Frau Putiphar” resemble 
extracts from M. Marcel Prevost’s writings, and M. Daudet thinks that the 
pirates must occasionally jumble names, so as to deceive reaiders. In a pub- 
lisher’s list at the end of “ Frau Putiphar” there are also advertised books by 
Zola and Adolphe Belot which these authors have never penned. Curiously 
enough, M. Daudet has also been the victim of an impostor similar to the 
reverend gentleman in England who once used to pass himself off as George 
Eliot. Some years ago, at a dinner given by M. Duclerc when Minister for 
Foreign Affairs, an impudent rogue who was among the guests coolly gave out 
that he was Alphonse Daudet, and interested his innocent neighbors at the table 
by talking of his past literary work and his future plans. With reference to 
the book “Frau Putiphar,” it must be added that M. Daudet received a letter 
from a German publisher, who stated that he had been hoaxed by the alleged 
translator of the volume, which is now out of print . — London Telegraph. 

His Conscience. — “Have you no conscience?” shrieked the indignant 
victim. 

“You bet I have,” answered the proprietor of the Columbian Fake House. 
“ And, what’s more, it’s jist that very conscience that would ha’nt me all the 
days of my life if I was to let you carry any money out of Chicago; see ?” — 
Indianapolis Journal . 


CURRENT NOTES. 


675 



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Consumption Cured. — An old physician, retired from practice, had placed 
in his hands by an East India missionary the formula of a simple vegetable 
remedy for the speedy and permanent cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, 
Asthma, and all Throat and Lung Affections, also a positive and radical cure 
for Nervous Debility and ail Nervous Complaints. Having tested its wonderful 
curative powers in thousands of cases, and desiring to relieve human suffering, 
I will send free of charge, to all who wish it, this recipe, in German, French, or 
English, with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by mail, by ad- 
dressing, with stamp, naming this paper, W. A. Noyes, 820 Powers’ Block. 
Rochester, N.Y. 


Imperial Granum is capable of being served in most delicious and ap- 
petizing forms. — New York Observer. 

Imperial Granum is recommended by physicians everywhere, and we 
heartily second their opinion of its value. Its superiority as a prepared food is 
past question. — The Pulpit , Buffalo, N.Y. 


The C. H. & D. R. R. have issued a handsome panoramic view, five feet 
long, of Chicago and the World’s Fair, showing relative heights of the prin- 
cipal buildings, etc., also a handsome photographic album of the World’s Fair 
buildings, either of which will be sent to any address, postpaid, on receipt of 
ten cents in stamps. Address D. G. Edwards, General Passenger Agent World’s 
Fair Route, 200 West Fourth Street, Cincinnati, Ohio. 


676 


CURRENT NOTES. 


Neander, professor of theology in Berlin, was one day overtaken by a 
thunder-storm. He jumped into a cab, but could not give either the number 
of his house or the name of the street. The driver thought the man was mad, 
and was about to tell him to get out, when the professor, espying a student, 
called out to him and said, “ Just tell the man where I live.” Neander’s sister, 
who kept house for him, took fresh apartments nearer the university, as she 
thought the distance too great for her brother. A few days after their removal, 
he complained of the long and tiring walk, and it then turned out that he had 
always gone first to the old lodgings and so round to the university . — Chronik 
der Zeit. 

The British Soldier’s Lot. — While the nominal pay of a private is one 
shilling a day, or twenty-four cents, he really does not receive much more than 
half that in actual cash. Deductions are charged to his account for extra sup- 
plies of rations and for washing, which bring the net amount placed to his credit 
down to about four shillings, or one dollar, per week. Most of the table sup- 
plies which the ordinary citizen would rate as necessaries are “ extras” in the 
soldier’s bill of fare. Butter, tea, coffee, sugar, any excess of meat above half a 
pound daily, vegetables, fish, and everything beyond his pittance of meat and 
bread, have to be paid for out of his twenty-four cents. From the same slim 
source also have to come the cost of repairs to his clothing, and the amount 
of the practically compulsory, though nominally optional, subscriptions to the 
cricket, shooting, and athletic clubs connected with the regiment. A still fur- 
ther deduction of ten cents per month is taken off his diminished pay for the 
cost of “ repairs to barracks,” a mysterious item charged in accordance with a 
venerable custom, of which no one in the army can give any satisfactory ac- 
count other than established custom. 

The recreations of the English soldier are on a par with the rest of his sur- 
roundings. The few cents he may happen to possess at any one time will not 
obtain any elevating relaxation, so he seeks the lowest and cheapest modes of 
dissipation. There is in all barracks a place called by courtesy a reading- 
room, but Tommy has no education, and naturally falls back on the canteen, 
where he can drink and smoke in peace at an expense not too heavy for his 
puny purse. Outside, the lowest groggeries, vulgarly known as “ pubs,” are 
about his only resort. The common soldier is shunned by almost everybody as 
something too far down in the social scale to have anything to do with. — Phila- 
delphia Times. 

• 

Good Old Times. — Professor Potterby. — “The temples of the ancient 
Greeks were all roofless.” 

Fresh (’96). — “ H’m. They had a better excuse than we have for staying 
away from church on rainy days .” — Indianapolis Journal. 

George Guess, to whom a monument is soon to be erected in Indian Ter- 
ritory, was the Cadmus of the Cherokees, so to speak, for he invented an 
alphabet for their use, and in that way distinguished them above other Ameri- 
can Indians. Guess was a half-breed, the son of a Cherokee mother and an 
English father, and was fifty years old when, in 1820, he devised this famous 
alphabet. He lived to regret the invention, for he was an unbeliever, and the 
only work of consequence printed in Cherokee with the new alphabet was the 
Bible . — New York World. 


TRADE REVIVAL IN THE WEST. 


677 


TRADE REVIVAL IN THE WEST. 


N no city in the United States was the financial 
stringency of the summer months felt less than in 
St. Louis. Not a single bank suspended payment 
for so much as an hour, nor was a breath of suspi- 
cion raised against any one of the numerous finan- 
cial institutions in the great Western and South- 
western metropolis. No clearing-house certificates 
were issued, nor was there anything in the method 
in which business was transacted to indicate the 
scarcity of currency which caused so much incon- 
venience in so many other cities. 

The immense manufacturing interests of the city weathered the storm with 
equal ease. A few of them reduced the hours of working, but there was little 
beyond the usual midsummer dulness, and with the fall months came not only 
the remarkable and magnificent Autumnal Festivities, but also a general revival 
in business of all kinds fully equal to that of past years. The great shoe-factories, 
which have a combined output larger than that of any other city in America, are 
now working full time and to their utmost capacity, and the returns indicate 
that the value of the boots and shoes manufactured in St. Louis during the 
year will exceed twelve million dollars. The same is true in regard to almost all 
the manufacturing interests of the city. Business is brisk, orders are coming 
rapidly, and the number of out-of-town buyers in the city is fully up to the 
average of past years. Factories which took advantage of the dull times to 
shut down temporarily in order to execute repairs or increase their capacity 
are now working overtime to catch up with the arrears of orders, and there is 
an air of prosperity in the city which it is impossible for the most confirmed 
pessimist to explain away. 

During the fall the attendance of visitors has been exceptionally large. 
The attractions provided by the St. Louis Autumnal Festivities Association 
and by the Exposition and Fair brought tourists from all parts of America as 
well as large numbers from abroad, and these were as much impressed by the 
evidences of wealth and progress which they saw as by the Carnival itself. The 
builder has been active all the year, and as a result of his work lofty structures, 
modern in type and most attractive in elevation and decoration, have reared their 
heads along the line of all the principal streets. 

This is the last year in which visitors to the annual Carnival will alight at 
the Union Dep6t which has done service for so many years for the city. The 
new Union Depot, of which an illustration was recently published in this mag- 
azine, is now practically completed, and will be opened for traffic in a very short 
time. It has been described by those responsible for its erection as the largest 
and most convenient Union Railroad Station in the world, and no one who 
examines the new structure, with its admirable arrangements for the comfort of 
travellers, and its still more conspicuously unique facilities for the handling of 
the immense number of passenger-trains which will enter and leave it daily, 
will be inclined to doubt the truth of the prediction. 

The cost of this magnificent railroad-station will approximate, if it does 



678 


TRADE REVIVAL IN THE WEST. 


not exceed, two million dollars ; and another splendid building in a very forward 
stage of construction in St. Louis will cost fully as much by the time it is con- 
structed and equipped. Reference is made to the twelve-story fire-proof hotel 
on the site of the old Planters’ House. When the St. Louis Autumnal Festivi- 
ties Association was formed it pledged itself, among other things, to secure the 
erection of a million-dollar hotel, modern in its appointments and absolutely 
fire-proof. The Association has been better than its word, for the new hotel, 
which will be ready for occupation early next year, is far grander and more 
costly than was promised or expected. 

Another exceptionally fine building will also be completed early in the 
coming year. This is an office building on the corner of Seventh and Olive 
Streets, about midway between the Mississippi River and the Exposition build- 
ing. It will cost when completed considerably more than a million dollars, and 
will rank among the loftiest and grandest office buildings in America. 

Almost adjoining this lofty structure is the new home of the Mercantile 
Club, an institution which has an almost world-wide reputation for hospitality. 
Across the street from this club building another very handsome and com- 
modious hotel is being erected. Two other large hotels are in contemplation, 
and will probably be built during the coming spring: so that in the matter of 
hotel accommodations little will be left to be desired. 

To give some idea of the building activity in the business section of St. 
Louis, it may be mentioned that, in addition to the large buildings named in 
detail above, no less than ten fire-proof structures, each costing in excess of 
five hundred thousand dollars, have been completed and occupied since January 
1, to say nothing of more than twice that number of factories and business 
structures almost in the half-million class. 

The outlook for St. Louis business interests is brilliant in the extreme. 
The enormous territory which recognizes it as its commercial metropolis has 
emerged unscathed from the exceptional summer dulness, and the year 1891 
promises to be even more prosperous than any which have preceded it. 



THE NEW PLANTERS’ HOUSE, ST. LOUIL. 




THE DECEMBER NUMBER 


OF 

LaIPPINCOTTS 



READY 

NOVEMBER 20, 


mflGflZINH 


WILL CONTAIN A COMPLETE NOVEL ENTITLED 


Sergeant 

Crresus. 


BY 

Capt. Charles King, 

Author of 

“The Colonel’s Daughter,” 
“The Deserter,” 

“Two Soldiers,” 

“ Dunraven Ranch,” etc. 


KLSO, THE TENTH OF 



Lippincott’s Notable Stories 



A Series published Monthly on an original competitive 
plan, explained in each number. 


And the Usual Variety of Stories, Essays, Poems, etc. 


FOR LIST OF COMPLETE NOVELS CONTAINED IN FORMER NUMBERS, 


SEE NEXT PAGE. 

a 



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By Louis Morin. Introduction by Jules Claretie. 

Edition de Luxe, Limited to io}o Copies for America. 

WITH FIFTEEN PLATES (13 x 17 INCHES) PRINTED IN COLOR 
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DRED SKETCHES, PORTRAITS, AND DRAWINGS IN THE TEXT. 

T HE publishers have taken full advantage of the special opportunities offered by the interest of 
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Every featur of the illustration of the book has been made a most careful study, as the 
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List of Plates Printed on Imperial Hand>made Japan Paper. 


E. Detaille .... 
Albert Lynch . . 
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WORKS BY DR. GEIKIE. 

The appearance of these books has marked an epoch 
in the study of the Bible. An amount of light and in- 
formation which is as wonderful as it is gratifying. 

HOURS WITH THU BIBLE, Old Testament Series ; 

Or, the Scriptures in the Light of Modern Knowledge. 
By Cunningham Geikie, D.D., LL.D. Entirely new 
edition, revised and largely rewritten. Printed from 
new plates, bound in maroon cloth, gilt lettering. 

Each volume contains a copious index, list of author- 
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500 pages to the volume. 

6 vols., in box. Price, $7.50. 

“The great advance in every branch cf Biblical knowl- 
edge wlrch has marked the ten years during which HOURS 
WITH THF BIBLE have been before the world, has necessarily 
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sources; elucidating and illuminating countless points hith- 
erto imperfectly understood or wholly overlooked. This new 
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Prof. R. W. Rogers, of Dickinson College, one of the 
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“ This new edition of Geikie’s HOURS WITH THE BIBLE is 
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“Carlisle, Penn., June 12, 1893.” 

THE BIBLE IN MODERN LIGHT. 

Hours with the Bible, New Testament Series of. 

By Cunningham Geikie. The New Testament portion 
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The Gospels. Vol. I., with Illustrations. 

12mo, Cloth, Gilt, $1.50. Ready November 1st. 

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OCTOBER, 1S93. 



HOLIDAY AND GIFT BOOKS. - 

Tales from Shakspeare. 

By CHARLES and MARY LAMB, with a continuation by HARRISON S. MORRIS, author 
of “Tales from Ten Poets,” etc. Four volumes. i6mo. Illustrated , cloth , extra , $4.00; 
half calf or half morocco, $8.00; three-quarters calf $10.00. Edition de Luxe (limited 
to 150 copies). Four volumes. Small 8vo. Cloth, $12.00 net. 

The twenty tales from the plays of Shakspeare by Charles and Mary 
Lamb are the most useful and agreeable companions to an understanding 
of Shakspeare that have ever been produced. They are included in the 
first two volumes of this edition. In the two remaining volumes, Mr. 
Morris, who last year so successfully told the tales of the Victorian poets, 
completes the plays, and in a brief space presents each plot and story in a 
most engaging manner. Even those who are familiar with every line of 
the original will be delighted with the pleasing and compendious way in 
which the plays are given. The numerous half-tone illustrations are a 
, feature of the edition. 

The Lives of the Queens of England. 

By AGNES STRICKLAND. New Cabinet Edition. In eight volumes. i6mo. Cloth , $12.00; 
half calf, $24.00; three-quarters calf , $28.00. 

“The Lives of the Queens of England” are among the most fascinating 
reading which history affords, because they are built upon character rather 
than upon events. It has almost passed into an axiom that biography is 
more alluring than history, and these “Lives of the Queens,” like Plu- 
tarch’s “Lives” of Ancient Grecians and Romans, embody the best elements 
of both. They depict the queens in their daily life, “their sayings and 
doings, their manners, their costume,” giving as well “their most interest- 
ing letters” and royal documents. 


9 



History of the Consulate and the Empire 
of France. — Vol. I. 

By L. A. THIERS, ex-Prime Minister of France. Translated from the French, with the sanction 
of the author, by D. Forbes Campbell. An entirely new edition, printed from new type and 
illustrated with thirty-six steel plates printed from the French originals. Twelve octavo 
volumes. Cloth , $3.00 per volume. 

This great work is one of the foremost historical productions of the age. 
The first volume appeared in 1845, and the work was completed in i860. 
The only good edition of the English translation has long been out of print, 
and the present publishers, in connection with an English house, will bring 
out a limited edition to meet the demand of the libraries and book-buyer. 
The first two volumes of this sumptuous edition have just been issued, 
and will be followed with one volume a mouth until the work is completed. 
Subscriptions will be received for complete sets only by all booksellers and 
the publishers. 

History of the Reign of the Emperor 
Charles V. (Two volumes.) 

Biographical and Critical Miscellanies. 

(One volume.) 

Completing the De Luxe Edition (limited to 250 copies) of the works of WILLIAM H. PRES- 
COTT. Containing all the steel plates on India paper and maps that appeared in former 
editions, together with fifteen new phototype illustrations to each volume. Large 8vo. 
Handsomely bound in half morocco , gilt top , $5.00 net per volume. 

An intelligent critic of Blackwood' s Magazine once said : “Who that has 
read anything has left unread those charming histories of Mr. Prescott? 
A philosopher pursuing his speculations upon humanity can nowhere find 
richer materials for the construction of his theories than in those volumes. 
A youth craving the excitement of imagination can nowhere enter into more 
wondrous regions of poetry and romance.’ ’ In this sumptuous edition, now 
complete in thirteen volumes, there are not only all the steel portraits and 
maps that have appeared in former editions, but each volume contains a 
number of handsome phototype illustrations copied from photographs of 
cities, public edifices, and reproductions of paintings representing the re- 
markable events narrated. 

Other volumes in the De Luxe Edition : 

History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Two volumes. 
History of the Conquest of Mexico. Two volumes. 

History of the Conquest of Peru. Two volumes. 

History of the Reign of Phieip II. Three volumes. 

8vo. Half morocco , gilt top , $5.00 net per volume. 

Goldsmith’s Works. 

New Edition. Published in connection with Dent & Company, of London. Illustrated with 
etchings by HERBERT RAILTON. Six volumes. i6mo. Cloth , $6.00. 

This edition, uniform with “Austin,” “Fielding,” and other standard 
works, comprises Poems, Plays, Vicar of Wakefield, Citizen of the World, 
and The Bee and other Essays. 


10 


Historical Tales. 

The Romance of Reality. By CHARGES MORRIS, author of “Half-Hour Series,” “Tales 
from the Dramatists,” etc. America, England, France, Germany. Illustrated. 127710. 
Cloth , $1.25 per volu77ie. Each work sold separately or in sets in boxes. $5.00 per set ; 
half calf $10.00. 

History is made up of two elements, — the ordinary and the extraordi- 
nary, the wearisome monotony of the usual and the exciting variety of the 
unusual. It is the latter in which readers delight, and with which this 
work deals ; those entertaining and spirit-stirring incidents which give to 
history its chief zest ; those tales of pathos and of passion, of novel events 
and striking interest, on which man will never cease to dwell with pleas- 
ure. “The Romance of Reality,” the sub-title of the work, admirably 
indicates its character, for within its pages may be found grouped the scene 
of those romantic and eventful incidents which form the pith of the history 
of the leading modern nations, and many of which have long been favorites 
in popular lore. The half-tone illustrations, twelve in each volume, add to 
the beauty and historical value of an otherwise attractive work. 

Seven Christmas Eves. 

The Romance of a Social Evolution. By seven authors. With illustrations by DUDEEY 
HARDY. 1 2mo. Cloth , $1.00. 

A story of the lives of two little waifs picked up from the streets of 
London, told in seven chapters by as many different authors. Their child- 
ish troubles were not imaginary, as it so often happens, but there was an 
abundance of sunshine to dispel the sorrow. It is a good book for young 
folks, and even mature readers will find much entertainment in the story of 
Nan and Nick. Mr. Clement Scott writes the last chapter in a quite ro- 
mantic way. 

The Chronicles of Fairyland. 

A volume of fantastic tales for both old and young. By FERGUS HUME. Illustrated in 
the text by M. DUNLOP. 4to. Cloth extra , $1.50. 

Containing The Red Elf, Shadowland, The Water Witch, Moon Fancies, 
The Rose Princess, Sorrow Singing, The Golden Goblin, and The En- 
chanted Forest. 

A Dog of Flanders, 

And Other Stories, by OUIDA, is a collection of four charming sketches for young readers. 
Illustrated with engravings after drawings by EDMUND H. GARRETT. S77iall 4to. 
Cloth , $1.50. 

“In her manner of telling these little tales there is remarkable resem- 
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imagination the author pushes closely the writers of the classic juveniles. 
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entered well into their spirit in his illustrations. 

Twenty Little Maidens. 

By AMY E. BLANCHARD. Illustrated by IDA WAUGH. Small 4to. Cloth extra , $1.50. 

A delightful book for the little folks. It contains twenty distinct stories 
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11 


NEW EDITIONS, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


King Arthur and the Knights of the 
Round-Table. 

A Modernized Version of the Morte Darthur. By CHARLKS MORRIS. New Illustrated 
Edition. Three volumes, i6mo. Cloth, gilt top , $3.00 ; half calf or half morocco , $6.00 ; 
three-quarters calf, $7.50. 

4 ‘ Mr. Charles Morris has done an excellent work, especially for young 
readers,” says the Philadelphia Times , “in what may be described as a 
translation of Mallory into modern English prose. To those who can read 
the ‘ Morte Darthur’ in its original form, or rather in the form into which 
Mallory put it, this modernization is not necessary, and may be not entirely 
welcome ; but the truth is that Mallory is very hard reading, and requires 
so much interpretation that it is safest and best to give up the old form 
and come down to plain, every-day language. Mr. Morris has taken no 
unwarranted liberties with his original. He has simply put it in a modern 
dress.” 

In the Yule-Log Glow. 

By HARRISON S. MORRIS. Contains Christmas tales and Christmas poems “from ’round 
the world.” They are full of the glad spirit of the season, and they celebrate it in manifold 
ways, but in uniform excellence of manner. With sixteen illustrations. Four volumes. 
i6mo. Cloth , gilt top, $4.00 per set ; half-polished calf or morocco, $8.00; three-quarters 
calf, $10.00. 

4 ‘ When the delightful night is done and the yule-log falls apart and drops 
into the ashes, all who have been privileged to sit in its genial glow and hear 
these stories and the songs, are overflowing with the true Christmas fervor. 
The people of all lands are their brothers, and even the crabbed reviewer 
dips his pen in the wassail-bowl and cries : 

“Drink hael ! Good folks by the chimney side, 

O Sweet’s the holy Christmas-tide ! 

Drink hael ! Drink hael ! and pledge again : 

Here’s ‘p eace on earth, good will to men.’.” 

— The Epoch . 

Through Colonial Doorways. 

By ANNF HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON. Edition de Luxe. Handsomely bound, uncut 
edges, in box , $3.50 net. 

EDITION DE LUXE. Many who admire the cloth edition of this 
attractive work have expressed a desire to possess it in still more sumptuous 
form and with extra illustrations. To supply this want, the publishers pro- 
pose issuing, in November, an edition de luxe on large and fine paper, with 
the addition of new illustrations, consisting of etchings and phototypes of 
rare portraits, residences, letters, etc. 

As the use of some of these pictures has been kindly granted to Miss 
Wharton by the descendants of noted families, exclusively for insertion in 
this work, they will be procurable in no other way. 

The volume will be handsomely bound in special style, with uncut 
edges. The price will be $3.50 net. 

The edition will be limited to 442 copies. 

Fourth edition of the regular i2mo issue now ready, $1.25. 

12 


Illustrated Edition of the Half-Hour Series. 

Selected and arranged by CHARLES MORRIS. Uniform in style, size, and binding, each vol- 
ume containing six illustrations. 

HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST FOREIGN AUTHORS. Four vol. 

nines. Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, $6.00 ; half calf, $10.00; three-quarters calf , $13.00. 

It is the only collection affording a general survey of representative 
foreign works. It opens a way to general readers who are not linguists to 
become acquainted with the qualities and style of the masterpieces of ancient 
and modern writers, and reach, with the most delightful entertainment, a 
deeper and a broader literary culture. 

HAEF-HOURS WITH THE BEST HUMOROUS AUTHORS. Four 

volumes. Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, $6.00; half calf, $10.00; three-quarters calf , $13.00. 
The selections in these volumes embrace some of the choicest writings 
of the best American, English, and foreign humorists. They are made with 
excellent judgment and taste. Many are famous, others are comparatively 
unknown, but all are meritorious. 

HAEF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AMERICAN AUTHORS. Four vol- 

umes. Crown 8vo. Cloth , $6.00 ; half calf $10.00; three-quarters calf $13.00. 8vo size 
half cloth, $16.00. 

The best samples from every American author of note in history, poetry, 
art, fiction, and philosophy are grouped here, so that the reader can take up 
any one of the four volumes and, turning at random, can find something 
particularly meritorious to entertain and instruct him. Such books have not 
only the spice of variety about them, but they are full of solid and useful 
information. 

HAEF-HOURS WITH AMERICAN HISTORY. Two volumes. Crown 8vo. 
Cloth, $3.00; half calf, $5.00; three-quarters calf , $6.50. 

The same general plan has been pursued by Mr. Morris in all the vol- 
umes here named. An introduction at the head of each selection gives 
biographical data, qualities, and influence of the author, while a full index 
adds to the excellence of the works. The collection is an extremely in- 
teresting one, and the books of the time offer no better method for a ready 
acquaintance with the choice and master spirits of literature. The numerous 
half-tone illustrations are an especial feature of the volumes. 

Tales from the Dramatists. 

Illustrated with portraits. Four volumes. i6mo. Cloth, extra, $4.00; half calf , $8.00; half 
morocco, $8.00 ; three-quarters calf, gilt top, $10.00. 

What an array of histrionic fame has Charles Morris, the author of the 
Half-Hour Series , here compressed in four dainty volumes, — a collection 
which contains not only the best specimens of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and 
Fletcher, and Massinger, but of the dramatists of the Restoration, and even 
of those of the last generation. He has given us examples from Otway, 
and Susanna Centlivre and Farquhar and Hannah Cowley ; from Edward 
Moore, Home, Goldsmith, Thomas Holcroft, John O’Keefe, Sheridan, Col- 
man, Thomas Morton, John Tobin, Sheridan Knowles, Sheil, and Talfourd, 
of the era we of to-day call past ; and beside these we have a group of 
playwrights who have made great our own times : Ford Eytton, Tom 
Taylor, Boucicault, Victor Hugo, Hayden, and our countryman, Boker. 

13 


Tales from Ten Poets. 

By HARRISON S. MORRIS. Three volumes. Illustrated with portraits of all the authors. 
Cloth , extra , $?. oo ; half calf $6.00 ; half morocco, $6.00; three-quarters calf $7.50. 

A small library of three luxurious little volumes, clad in the best of the 
binder’s treasures, illuminated with an unique group of characteristic por- 
traits of the ten poets, and packed in a convenient box. It contains twelve 
of the longer narrative poems of the Victorian era, namely : The Ring 
and the Book, The Princess, Rose Mary, The Lovers of Gudrun, Enoch 
Arden, A Blot in the ’Scutcheon, Aurora Leigh, Sohrab and Rustum, The 
Two Babes, Tristram of Lyonesse, Lucile, and The Spanish Gypsy, done 
into simple prose which retains all the flavor of the original poetry, in so 
far as prose may, and sacrifices none of the essential details of the story. 
This plan brings within the comprehension of the general reader what has 
long remained to him, literally, a sealed book. 

Queechy. 

By SUSAN WARNER, author of ‘'The Wide, Wide World,” “Dollars and Cents,” etc. New 
Edition. Uniform with “The Wide, Wide World.” Printed from new plates and illus- 
trated with thirty new pictures in the text from drawings by FREDERICK DIELMAN. 
j2mo. Cloth , $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents. 

“The new edition of this familiar story, issued uniform with the latest 
issue of 'The Wide, Wide World,’ will be gladly welcomed by thousands 
of old friends and by many new ones. The w T ork has always been eagerly 
sought and read. The moral lessons in it will never be out of style, and 
its homely simplicity and rich pictures of child-life will always attract the 
young.” 

Birds in a Village. 

By W. H. HUDSON, S.M.Z.S., author of “Idle Days in Patagonia,” “The Naturalist in La 
Plata,” etc. Crown 8vo. Buckram binding, $2.25. 

Lovers of nature will find this work one of the most delightful books of 
bird-life that has appeared for some time. The author is not only a clever 
naturalist, but he possesses the rare gift of interesting his readers in what- 
ever attracts him. It is not a heavy scientific book, full of dry descriptions, 
but teems with delightful stories of the idiosyncrasies of birds, which serve 
to explain their habits and instincts. To the general reader as well as to 
the naturalist, it will rank as one of the most interesting of modern books 
on natural history. 

Our Own Birds. 

A Familiar Natural History of the Birds of the United States. By WILLIAM L. BAILY. 
Revised and edited by EDWARD D. COPE, Corresponding Secretary of the Academy of 
Natural Sciences, Philadelphia. Illustrated with numerous engravings. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

An excellent little manual for those who wish to become familiar with 
the common birds of this country. Full descriptions of the appearance 
and habits of the principal birds are given. The book is well written, and 
any one who takes it up will be apt to feel an interest in an attractive 
branch of natural history. The present volume, in addition to numerous 
wood-cuts, contains twelve new half-tone plates of the best workmanship. 

14 


At Long and Short Range. 

By WILLIAM ARMSTRONG COLLINS. Limited Edition. Tall i2mo. With ornamental 
title. Cloth , rough edges , $1.25. 

A choice edition, printed from type and limited to five hundred copies, 
has been printed of these charming and original essays in miniature. They 
have about them all the genial spirit of Lamb and Leigh Hunt, and in 
their treatment of men, women, and things show a wealth of experience 
and winning wisdom crystallized into paragraphs and essays never more 
than two or three pages long. A fascinating book for presentation or the 
shelves of the book-lover. 

Barabbas. 

A Dream of the World’s Tragedy. A new copyright novel by MARIE CORELLI, author 
of “Vendetta,” etc. i2tno. Cloth , $1.00. 

This remarkable novel, introducing many of the characters, incidents, 
and scenes in the great tragedy of the Crucifixion, is the latest work from 
the pen of a writer who has won great fame in England for her vivid 
romances upon spiritual themes. She possesses a picturesqueness of style 
and a grasp of character and situation of unusual power, and the tone of 
the book is in all respects deeply reverential, taking no liberties with the 
sacred text. 

A Third Person. 

By B. M. CROKER, author of “To Let,” “A Family Likeness,” “Two Masters,” etc. Issued 
in Lippincott’s Series of Select Novels. i2ino. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

The author of “A Third Person” possesses a characteristic raciness of 
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young Indian captain who loves, and finally wins, the grand-daughter of 
an elderly officer, degenerated into a postage-stamp collector. He and a 
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submits to for the sake of his sweetheart. 

Elinor Fenton. 

An Adirondack story. By DAVID S. FOSTER, author of “Casanova the Courier,” “Rebecca 
the Witch,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

The romance begins with the heroine saving the life of Ethan Hardy 
when lost upon the chasm above Devil’s Gorge. How he was made to 
promise not to reveal her secret home in the heart of the Adirondacks ; how 
she mysteriously disappears, and their subsequent meeting ; and how much 
happiness finally resulted from the many complications, Mr. Foster tells in 
this interesting novel. He also possesses a quaint humor all his own, and 
has produced a book which is sure to increase a repute already recognized. 

A Diplomat’s Diary. 

By JULIEN GORDON. New Edition in paper covers. i2mo. 50 cents. Bound in cloth, $1.00. 

‘‘The two characters that figure in the foreground of this story are alive ; 
we can hear them speak ; we see them ; we should recognize them in the 
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their social status or what the stage-setting of their lives .” — New York Sun . 

15 


NEW MEDICAL BOOKS. 


Clinical Gynaecology. 

Being a Hand-book of Diseases Peculiar to Women. By THOMAS MORE MADDEN, M.D., 
F.R.C.S. Ed., Obstetric Physician and Gynaecologist, Mater Misericordiae Hospital, Dublin ; 
Member Royal College of Physicians, Ireland, and Surgeons, England, etc., etc. With over 
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Dr. Madden is one of the best known gynaecologists of Europe, and in 
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land and America. 

Text-Book of Normal Histology: 

Including an Account of the Development of the Tissues and of the Organs. By 
George A. Piersol, M.D., Professor of Anatomy in the University of Pennsylvania. With 
over 300 original drawings by the author. 8vo. Cloth , $3.50. 

Dr. Piersol is eminently qualified by learning, research, and experience 
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exceptions original — cover the entire field of normal histology. 

Wilson’s Pocket Visiting-List. 

Perpetual Edition. Arranged for the Use of Practitioners. By J. C. WILSON, M.D., Physi- 
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A Medical Hand-Book. 

For the Use of Practitioners and Students. By R. L. AITCHISON, M.A., C.M., etc. i6mo. 

347 pages. Full morocco , flexible , gilt edges , $2.50. 

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this in view, Mr. Aitchison has prepared an accurate, compendious, and 
exceedingly accurate “ Medical Hand-Book.” 

16 


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By HENRY MACKENZIE. Illustrated by WILLIAM CUBITT COOKE. i6nio. Saline, 
uncut , $1.00; half calf or half morocco, $2.25. 

The author of this great novel has perhaps written some of the most 
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BOOKS IN PRESS. 

17th Edition United States Dispensatory. 

Carefully revised and rewritten by H. C. WOOD, M.D., LL.D. ; J. P. REMINGTON, Ph.M., 
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trated. Imperial 8vo. 

My Child and I. 

A Woman’s Story. By FLORENCE WARDEN, author of “The House on the Marsh,” etc. 

In the High Heavens. 

By ROBERT S. BALE, author of “In Starry Realms,” etc. 

Anaesthetics and Their Administration. 

A Hand-Book for Medical and Dental Practitioners and Students. By FREDERICK HEWITT, 
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Midwifery 

(An Introduction to the Study of). For the Use of Young Practitioners, Students, and 
Midwives. By ARCHIBALD DONALD, M.D., M. A. 

An Elementary Text-Book of Biology. 

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Part I. — Vegetable Morphology and Physiology. With Complete Index, Glossary, and 
One Hundred and Twenty-eight Illustrations. 

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Gas-, Oil-, and Air-Engines. 

A Practical Text- Book on Internal Combustion-Motors without Boiler. By BRYAN DONKIN, 
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17 


« One of the best books we have ever seen." — London Lancet. 




MOTHER AND CHILD. 


Mother, 

By EDWARD P. DAVIS, 
A.M., M.D. 


Child, 

By JOHN M. KEATING, 
M.D., LE.D. 


Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. 



A compendium of modern scientific knowledge on 
the relationship between the mother and her family. 
Everything that will add to the comfort and health 
of both mother and child is included in this ex- 
cellent work. The text is illustrated with numer- 


ous cuts. 

“A thoroughly responsible work.” —Springfield Republican. 

“An excellent manual, both instructive and 
readable.” — Chicago Times. 

4 4 A work of this nature becomes a necessity 
to the mother and a great help to the doctor.” — 
St. Louis Medical Brief. 

44 A valuable book that con- 
tains a large amount of much- 
needed information concerning 
maternity and rearing of infants 
and children.” — N. Y. Nursery 
Guide. 

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as invaluable and in- 
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Home Journal. 

“It contains almost 

(. Frontispiece .) everything that women 

want to know about the care of themselves and of their children. The hygiene of motherhood, 
the tender care of the precious babies, and the tendency of little people in general to diphtheria 
and measles, are not the only things provided for. There are helpful chapters on ventilation 
and exercise, on school- hygiene and surgical emergencies, on teething and earache, and, in 
short, on every topic, as we have said, on which the average mother needs information. There 
is a sensible absence of technicality, and an abundance of sound common sense in the book, 
and we heartily recommend it.” — Interior , Chicago. 

“ It is a gem of the first water. As we go further into the volume, we find that it is written 
not for the profession but for the laity. Not to supplant the physician but to aid him by educa- 
ting the mother in the right way. . . . We wish a copy could be put in the hands of every 
nurse.” — New England Medical Monthly. 




For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by the Publishers, post-paid, 
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B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 

18 



8 


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TYRE. 



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One of the oldest and most reputable publishing 
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No. Author. Title. 

1 Wilkie Collins — Your Money or Your Life. 

2 Walter Besant — The Humbling of the Mem- 

blings. 

3 Charles Dickens — The Mudfog Papers. 

4 Wilkie ColHns — The Magic Spectacles. 

5 Charlotte M. Braeme — A Bridge of Love. 

6 M. E. Braddon — George Caulfield’s Journey. 

7 S. T. Coleridge — The Rhyme of the Ancient 

Mariner. 

8 Bjornstjerne Bjornson — The Wedding March. 

9 Besant and Rice — The Ten Years and Tenant. 

10 Charles Dickens— Sketches of Young Couples. 

11 Mrs. Forrester — In a Country House. 

12 R. E. Francillon— Esther’s Glove. 

13 Emile Gaboriau — Max’s Marriage. 

14 Charles Gibbon — In Pastures Green. 

15 Thomas Hardy — What the Shepherds Saw. 

16 Mary Cecil Hay — In the Holidays. 

17 Captain Marryat — The Three Cutters. 

18 Helen B. Mathers— The Land o’ the Leal. 


74 * 


m 


& 






No. Author. Title. 

19 Miss Mulock— In a House Boat. 

20 Mrs. Oliphant— Earthbound. 

21 Ouida — Little Grand and the Marchioness. 

22 F.W. Robinson — The Bar-maid at Battleton 

23 Alfred Lord Tennyson — The Lover’s Tale. 

24 Miss Tackeray — Out of the World. 

25 Annie Thomas— The Mystery, and other 

Stories. 

26 Miss Mulock — The Self Seer. 

27 Mrs. J. H. Riddell— Miss Molloy’s Mishap. 

28 Katherine S. Macquoid— Poor Roger. 

29 The “Duchess” — How Snooks Got Out Of It 

30 A Conan Doyle — My Friend, The Murderer. 

31 Charles Dickens — The Chimes. 

32 Charlotte M. Braeme — A Gilded Sin. 

33 Besant and Rice— Shepherds all andMaidens 

Fair. 

34 Helen B. Mathers— As He Cometh Up The 

Stair. 


No. Author. Title. 

35 Anthony Trollope — Why Frau Frohmann 

Raises Her Price. 

36 CharlesDickens — Three Detective Anecdotes 

37 Violet Wythe— A Wavering Image. 

38 Mrs. Forrester — The Turn of Fortune’s 

Wheel. 

39 T. DeWitt Talmage— Night Side of New 

York. 

40 Miss Mulock — His Little Mother. 

41 Katherine S. Macquoid — The Awakening. 

42 Mary Cecil Hay — Reaping the Whirlwind. 

43 Mrs. Forrester — Queen Elizabeth’s Garden. 

44 Charles Dickens — The Battle of Life. 

45 Wilkie Collins— A Shocking Story. 

46 Ouida — Bimbi. 

47 Miss Mulock — The Last of the Ruthvens. 

48 Mary Cecil Hay — A Little Aversion. 

49 Ouida — The Little Earl. 

50 Besant and Rice — The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 


19 




BOOKS 

i F^PFPFF^HHPFFFPFH^HFFraaSSSH^HH^ZFPEFHESSH 



Lippincotf s Select Novels. 


No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 


150. 

149. 

148. 

147- 

146. 

»45- 

144. 

*43- 

142. 

141. 


$ 


No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 


No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 


No. 139. 
No. 138. 
No. 137. 
No. 136. 
No. 135. 
No. 134. 


I 33* 

132. 

131- 

130. 

129. 

128. 

127. 


if 


1 19. 
118. 
117. 
1 16. 
115. 
114. 
“3- 




The Sign of Four. By A. Conan Doyle. 

To Let. By B. M. Croker. 

Aunt Johnnie. By John Strange Winter. 

The Hoyden. By the “ Duchess.” 

Barbara Dering. By Amalie Rives. 

Broken Chords. By Mrs. George McClellan. 

Was He the Other. By Isobel Fitzroy. 

But Men Must Work. By Rosa N. Carey. 

A North Country Comedy. By M. Bethan-Edwards. 

One of the Bevans. By Mrs. Robert Jocelyn. 

No. 140. A Family Likeness. By Mrs. B. M. Croker. 

A Sister’s Sin. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

Sir Godfrey’s Grand=daughters. By Rosa N. Carey. 
A Big Stake. By Mrs. Robert Jocelyn. 

For His Sake. By Mrs. Alexander. 

A Daughter’s Heart. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 
Lady Patty. By the “ Duchess.” 

Old Dacres’ Darling. By Annie Thomas. 

A Covenant with the Dead. By Clara Lemore. 

Corinthia Marazion. By Cecil Griffith. 

Only Human; or Justice. By John Strange Winter. 

The New Mistress. By George Manville Fenn. 

A Divided Duty. By Ida Lemon. 

Drawn Blank. By Mrs. Jocelyn. 

No. 126. My Land of Beulah. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 
Interference. By B. M. Croker. 

Just Impediment. By Richard Pryce. 

Mary St. John. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Quita. By Cecil Dunstan. 

A Little Irish Girl. By the “ Duchess.” 

Two English Girls. By Mabel Hart. 

A Draught of Lethe. By Roy Tellet. 

The Plunger. By Hawley Smart. 

The Other Man’s Wife. By John Strange Winter. 

A Homburg Beauty. By Mrs. Edward Kennard. 

Jack’s Secret. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

Heriot’s Choice. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Two Masters. By B. M. Croker. 

No. 1 1 2. Disenchantment. An Every-Day Story. By F. Mabel 

Robinson. 

Pearl Powder. By Annie Edwardes. 

The Jewel in the Lotos. By Mary Agnes Tincker. 
The Rajah’s Heir. 

Syrlin. (Cloth, $1.00.) By Ouida. 

A Study in Scarlet. By A. Conan Doyle. 

A Last Love. By Georges Ohnet. 


No. 125. 
No. 124. 
No. 123. 
No. 122. 
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No. 120. 




No. hi. 
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“ It follows from this with unerring accuracy,” says the New York Evening Post , 
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Worcester’s New Academic Dictionary 

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Printed from entirely new plates. 688 pages. 

264 Illustrations. $1.50. 


Five Thousand Copies sent to Boston, on a single order, for use in the public schools^ 

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Worcester’s New Comprehensive 

Contains a full vocabulary of fifty thousand words. The design has been to give the 
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Printed from entirely new plates. 688 pages. 

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OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 
AND BRITISH AND AMERI- 
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FOSTER KIRK. 


Two volumes. Imperial 8vo. Nearly 1600 pages. 
Cloth binding, $15.00; sheep, $17.00; half Rus- 
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TESTIMONIALS. 


FROM THE LONDON SATURDAY RE VIE W.—' “ We have no hesitation in declaring 
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side of the entire mass of British and American literature.” 


FROM THE NEW YORK NA TION — “The work ought to be not only in every library, 
but in every school in which English literature is taught.” 

FROM THE PHIL A. PUBLIC LEDGER.— “Mr. Kirk’s volumes contain not only the 
results of the years of painstaking labor directed to the task in hand, but also show the 
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of all who have contributed to the vast stores of English literature.” 


ALLIBONE’S 

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its supplement those of 37,183 authors — with notices of their several hundred thousand 
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FROM THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE.— “ No dictionary of the authors of any language 
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50c, and SI 00 at Druggists 





Double BREECH I g 
LOADER $6 00 i_-| 
RIFLES $2.00|li!§ I 
BICYCLES $16W 



All kinds cheaper than 
| elsewhere.Beforeyoubuy 
send stamp lor catalogue 

IPOWELL&CLEMENTCO. 

CINCINNATI, OHIO. 


TYPEWRITERS, 

Unprejudiced advice given. All makes half-price. 
Shipped anywhere for examination. Exchanging 
a Specialty. Monthly payments. 62-page cat. free. 
TYPEWRITER I 45 Liberty St. , New York. 
HEADQUARTERS, f 186 Monroe St., Chicago. 


■Mftflsre&azESl 


DIALOGUES, Pieces to Speak 
and how to get up Fascinating Sun- 
day School Entertainment — all I Oc. 
SKIDMORE & CO., 85 John St., N. Y. 


Why is 

Chocolat-Menier 

CHOCOLAT MENIER 

'£ 

used the World 
over in prefer= 

ence to Cocoa ? 

Ifc'--- S5!!S-i •" huivHiMi 


B of its superiority in 

CCallSC strengthening properties 
and exceptional purity. 
Powdered Cocoa is sure to be chemically 
treated, therefore more or less injurious to 
health. If you wish to improve your diges- 
tion, abandon tea, coffee and cocoa, and enjoy 
the luxury of this world-renowned French 

Cocoa and 
Chocolate 

ARE NO MORE TO BE 
COMPARED WITH EACH 
OTHER THAN 

Skimmed Milk to pure Cream. 

PAM PH I PT K ivin 8f recipes and (Mention this 
rAlTirilLLl sa mple free. ( publication. 

Menier (Am. Branch), 86 W. Broadway, N.Y. City. 


product. 

ASK YOUR GROCER FOR 

CHOCOLAT 

MENIER 

Annual Sale* Exceed aa MILLION LBS. 
SAMPLES SENT FREE. MENIER, N.Y. 


The following are some of those who are now using the Celebrated 

JOUBERT & WHITE BUCKBOARDS, 

MADE FOR TWO , FOUR, AND SIX PASSENGERS: 


J. Pierpont Morgan, 
Abram S. Hewitt, 
Adrian Iseiin, Jr., 
Whitelaw Reid, 
Orson D. Munn, 
Chas. Lanier, 

F. C. Havemeyer, 
Louis C. Tiffany, 
Spencer Trask, 
Andrew Carnegie, 
William Rockefeller, 


John D. Rockefeller, 
Henry G. Hilton, 

John W. Harper, 

Jos. Abner Harper, 

Hon. Stephen B. Elkins, 
Wm. K. Vanderbilt, 

Geo. W. Vanderbilt, 

A. Lanfear Norrie, 

Dr. W. Seward Webb, 

W. D. Sloane, 

LeGrand B. Cannon, 


Robert Bonner, 

In Saratoga Springs, 50, 

In Colorado Springs, 50, 

In Blue Mountain Lake, 25, 

Lord Brassey, Normanshurst Court, England, 
Duchess of Marlborough, Blenheim Palace, Wood- 
stock, England, 

Earl of Aberdeen, Scotland, 

Baroness Burdett-Coutts, London, England. 


JOUBERT & WHITE, Glens Falls, N. Y., U.S.A. 


Write for Catalogue, 


PATENTEES AND SOLE MANUFACTURERS. 



DARK ROOM WORLD’S FAIR 

25 



WITH THE WITS. 



o 


The Fox and the Crow. 

NE day the fox came by. 

Overhead sat that same antiquated crow. 

Of course 8 the Vox^anted'iti Self - 8ame pieee of antediluvian cheese. 


from 


Madam,” remarked the beast, as it assumed an admiring attitude 
vour voice i^exqih'sUe^^o^ ycm ^know^Ta-ra-^’ ^ ^ ' n ^ ^ 

claw g crfaked!- min ° US P ° rti ° n ° f the CheeSe and holdin S th « remain7e7 in Us 
A little louder, if you please.” 


say 


j&rAKSa - — — * 

4 1 can’t.” anawprpfi the* nmur o a ai . 



eing^bu)- 0 ‘ a<fvertised Vour loving friends- ^at Two uMhS ioTear^u 

and tossed the rindto ReynartT’ How^thls? 4 ^ the remainder of the cheese 
O where and O where is my Highland lassie gone?” 
declPvitv7 e convfusions anSWer t0 qUeSti ° n ’ 88 the fox had rolled down the 
bodyWme* ^isSn1s! h b7t U^in-t i me7 Sed ^ ^ of the bush : “some- 


C. M. s. 




' 3£2SRE3nZcS22ZSSSEZ2Z S,2E3ZZZ2 £2ESg2£S2Z Z2^£g5 Sa 


West Shore Range. 



The above range embodies in Its construc- 
tion Four Valuable Patents, possessed b y 
no other Cook or Range, being used only 
in the “WEST SHORES.” 

1. The Simplex or Double Grate is cast in two 
parts, permitting a continuous fire, and is so perfect 
In operation that no sifting of ashes is required. 

2. The Triple Oven Yentilation. Pure air is sup- 
plied to the oven in such a way that the air therein 
contained is in constant circulation, and is thereby 
sooner heated to the baking-point than it can be in 
a dormant condition, as it is in ordinary stoves and 
ranges. From the same weight of flour more bread 
can be produced and of a better quality. Meats 
therein roasted are more tender. No basting is re- 
quired, and there is great saving in shrinkage. 

8. The Boiling Reservoir. It will boil the water, 
if so required, while using the oven for roasting or 
baking, which is an impossibility in any other stove 
or range. 

4. The Double Sheet Flue prevents all waste of heat. 

Send for Pamphlet to the 

LITTLEFIELD STOVE CO, ALBANY, N. Y. 


at home, to assist us preparing ad- 
dresses, also other writing and easy 

offloewerk. 125 to |30perweek entire 

year. If convenient enclose stamp. 
WOMAN’S CO-OPERATIVE TOILET CO., MILWAUKEE, WIS. (Inc.; 


LMY WANTED 


A WOMAN’S SUCCESS 

HtHomo. JnstructionsFKK^^ad^^^^^ 

(No humbug.) MRS* J. A, MANNING, 


For two years 
I have made 

$25 a week 

readers. Send stamp. 

Box 05, ANNA, OHIO* 


ait ENGRAVER VISITING CARDS, $1.00. For 15 
LI I cents we will send you a copy of our new illus- 
illl trated Card Etiquette Story, 64 Margaret March- 
vU land’s Outing.” Samples Visiting Cards or 
Wedding Invitations, 4 cents. Satisfaction guaran- 
teed. The Bellman Bros. Co., 338 Oak St., Toledo, O. 



VA/IEET SAYS SHE CANNOT SEE HOW 
Wirt YOU DO IT FOR THE MONEY. 

| Q Buys a $65.00 Improved Oxford Singer 

V * t Sewing Machine; perfect working, reliable, 
finely finished, adapted to light and heavy work, 
with a complete set of the latest improved attachment* 
FREE. Eaoh machine is guaranteed for 5 years. Buy 
direct from our factory, and save dealers and agent* 
profit. FREE TRIAL and FREE CATALOGUE. 

OXFORD MFQ. CO., DEPT.X, 77, Chicago, III 



The name to remember when buying a 
PlfiVpi C « A. W. GUMP & CO., 
Pjw I OLE DAYTON, OHIO. 

S30to$50 saved on many 
new and second-hand Bicycles. 
Lists free. Over 2000 in stock. 
Cash or time. Agents wanted. 


Ever^lxxl^ 

uses shade-rollers. Not everybody 

knows what kind ^MSHOaN’S^tsagSv 
to buy. 

The roller that 



runs the smoothest, lasts the long- 
est and is the easiest to put up, is 
the Hartshorn Self-Acting. It obeys 
the slightest touch and stops where 
you want it. 

The “Hartshorn” is the pioneer 
of spring rollers, and imitators 
haven’t yet found out how to beat 
it. Shade-rollers are sold so cheap 
that even the poorest can have the 
best. 

The genuine bears the autograph of Stewart Hartshorn 
on label. 




Alaska 
Stove Lifter, 




Always Cold, 

Will not get hot 
even if left 
in the lid. 


Heavily Nickel Plated, 

Sold by all Stove, Hardware, 
and House Furnishers, or sent 
by mail, postpaid, for 30 cents, 
—Also the— 

^ALASKA POKER. 

TROY NICKEL WORKS, Troy, N.Y, 

vn n A M A O' for Dramatic Clubs, Comedies, 
L/r\AIVlr\0 Farces, Tableaux-Vivants, and 
other entertainments for church and school exhibi- 
tions. Wigs and beards, paper scenery, minstrel 
goods, etc. Send for descriptive list, No. — , Harold 
Roorbach, 132 Nassau Street, New York, N.Y. 

485,629 Pairs sold throughout the U. S* 
Parker Pays the Postage on his A rctic Sock for m en, 
women and children. Recommended by ph^ 1 ' 

sicians and nurses for house, chamber t 
sickroom. Only sock for rubber^ 
boots, it absorbs perspirvv, 
tion. Ask shoe dealer^ 
or send25c.with size J 

,J.H. Parker,^ 

103 Bedford St.. 

Boston. Mass. 





WATER CLOSETS 


27 


Large body and surface of water, deep seal, 

noiseless, perfectly sanitary, no odors, finely 
finished, most improved ; such is the “ Nau- 
tilus.” Catalogue free. 

W. S. Coopsr Brass Ms, Philadelphia. 









TRAINS IN THE 
WORLD 




ARE THE 


R0YR1 R1 1 IF 1 INF. TRAINS 

between 

NEW YORK, PHILADELPHIA, 
BALTIMORE, WASHINGTON. 

RUNNING VIA 

Baltimore Ohio Railroad. 

All trains are Vestibuled from end to end, Heated by Steam, Lighted by Pintsch Gag, 

^ wain rQtected Fallma „> 8 Anti-Telescoping Device, and operated under 

Perfected Block Signal System. 

The Baltin ami Ohio Railroad 

Maintains a Complete Service of Vestibuled 
Express Trains between 

NEW YORK, 

CINCINNATI, 

ST. LOUIS, and 

CHICAGO, 

EQUIPPED WITH 

pnllman palace fSleepiqg (3ai% 

Running Through Without Change. 


ALL B. AND 0. TRAINS 

BETWEEN THE 

MSTdlESSWASHIlGTOI. 


PRINCIPAL OP PICES : 


211 Washington St., Boston, Mass. 

415 Broadway, New York. 

N. E. Cor. 9th and Chestnut Sts., Phila., Pa. 
Cor. Baltimore and Calvert Sts., Baltimore, 
Md. 


J. T. ODELL, 

General Manager. 


} BALTIMORE, MD. { 

28 


1351 Pennsylvania Ave., Washington, D.C. 
Cor. Wood St. and Fifth Ave., Pittsburg, Pa. 
Cor. Fourth and Vine Sts., Cincinnati, O. 
193 Clark St., Chicago, 111. 

105 North Broadway, St. Louis, Mo. 

CHAS. O. SCULL, 

General Passenger Agent 1 





The DENSMORE 


Christened by its users “ The World's 
Greatest Typewriter.” None of its ope- 
rators ever go back to the use of any other. 
“The alignment of my machine is still 
perfect” is heard every day, from the old- 
est operators of the Densmore. Many in- 
disputable advantages and conveniences 
shown, and testimonials from great con- 
cerns given, in our free pamphlet. Our 
World’s Fair Exhibit may interest you. 
Not competing for medals, we determined, 
instead, that machines from regular stock 
only should be shown, enabling visitors to 
see how they are made, and why they are 
made so, what they can do, and how beau- 
tifully they can do it. 


DENSMORE TYPEWRITER CO., 202 B’way, N. Y. 


“IMPROVEMENT THE ORDER OF THE AGE.” 

The Smith Premier Typewriter. 



The only perfect model of a writing machine. 
Full of new devices. 

Great durability. 

Permanent alignment. 

Easiest manner of inspecting work. 

Type cleaned in ten seconds without soiling the 
hands. 

Only uniform stroke type-bar machine. 

Keys all lock at end of line. 

Perfect ribbon motion, by means of which the rib- 
bon is made to last four times as long as on other 
machines. 

A host of other improvements that place The 
Smith Premier Typewriter ahead of all competitors. 
Send for Illustrated Catalogue. 

THE SMITH PREMIER TYPEWRITER COMPANY, 
SYRACUSE, N. Y. 


The 

ANVIL 

and 

SHUTTLE 



IDEAL KEYBOARD. 


Model Hammond 


The Typewheel Improved 

Manifolding and Perfect Touch 

UNIQUE I 
PEERLESS ! 

UNIVERSAL KEYBOARD. 



BRANCH OFFICES : 

New York City, 293 and 295 Detroit, Mich., 101 Griswold St. 

Broadway. Buffalo, N.Y., 61 Niagara St. 

Chicago, 111., 154 Monroe St. Rochester, N.Y , 407 lowers Blk. 

Boston, Mass., 25 School St. Omaha, Neb.. 1609S£ Farnam St. 

Fhila., Pa., 335 Chestnut St. ' Baltimore, Md., 11 E. Baltimore 
Cincinnati, O., 166 Walnut St. Street, 

St. Louis, Mo., 208 N. 7th St. Denver, Col., 1627 Champa St. 
St. Paul, Minn., Chamber Com- Peoria, 111., 118 North Adams St. 

merce Building. Milwaukee, Wis., 82 Wisconsin. 

Cleveland, O., 119 Public Sq. Street. 

1 ittsburg, Pa., 214 Wood St. Indianapolis, Ind., 47 S. Illinois. 
Minneapolis, Minn., 9 Fourth St., South. 


Full particulars from 

HAMriOND TYPEWRITER CO. 
447-449 East 52d Street 
NEW YORK 


TYPEWRITERS HALF PRICE 


We have a large stock of all kinds of writing machines, new and second-hand, at very low figures. 
We buy, sell, rent, or exchange anywhere in the country. Send for large illustrated catalogue describing 
machines. Everything guaranteed. 

NATIONAL TYPEWRITER EXCHANGE, 

200 La Salle Street, Chicago, 111. 

29 



WITH THE WITS. 



Fable of the Egotist. 


4 


O NCE upon a time there lived a man who got no further in his alphabet than 
“I, M which he always pronounced with lingering and loving emphasis. 
One day, as he walked the streets in a reflective mood, he was inter- 
rupted by an obnoxious cynic with the query, “ Why so serious? Of w T hat are 
you thinking?” 

“I am thinking,” responded the other, annoyed to have his cogitations dis- 
turbed, and looking with suggestive directness at the cynic, “ I am thinking of an 
ass.” 

“Ah !” replied the cynic, “ I did not know that you were given to introspec- 
tion ; but then you always were an egotist.” 



Fable of the Self-Made Man. 

O NCE upon a time there was a self- 
made man, — metaph orically 
speaking, — who, one day on 
his return from an unsatisfactory dress 
parade, met a little boy violently. Ac- 
cepting his apologies and assisting him 
to his feet, he said, “ Young man, if you 
don’t see nuthin’. you are apt to get 
hurt.” 

“ Oh, sir,” exclaimed the gentle lad, 
as he removed himself a deferential dis- 
tance, “you do yourself an injustice; I 
saw nothing plainly enough, but not in 
time to dodge.” 

“Alas!” murmured the adult syn- 
thesis, as he fell short a yard or so in 
his effort to put the mark of his approval 
upon the discerning youth, “ how true 
it is that you cannot tell an egg until it 
is cracked !” 


30 


C. M. S. 



r;rr*Hri rr. ct d 1 d ricl dxii^Hxid 'H PFHrV jjj=»j=» P’?gp , ^Pl r-iTM'r-Mr^n 


3?^-* MISCELLANEOUS 



HALCS 

Vc^X 

•^o believe <»_HA.IR 





restores the youthful color, vitality, 
and growth to gray hair. Stops 
the hair from falling, and makes 
hair grow on bald heads. Cures 
dandruff and all scalp disorders. 
A fine hair dressing. The best 
recommended hair renewer ever 
made. Endorsed by our best 
physicians and chemists. 

Buckingham’s Dge & r e Whiskers 

gives to the beard a uniform and 
natural color. Easy of application. 
The gentlemen's favorite. 

R. F. HALL & C0. f Prop’?, 

WASHUA, N. H. 

Sold by all Druggists. 



Ifale \ 

Mixture 



Gentleman’s 

Smoke. 



'oTirp prove 
d do o 


ffioid double f^e price . 
ft ij Zfe c^oicejtJniofjipjTdbaGco 
tfrat Qtperiepce cap producdorf^afi 

WW^toypprkBrSroj 

Baltimore , Md. 


PA^TPI IP germ proof 

rfVJ 1 L|Ur ^ WATER FILTERS 

Are constructed on scientific principles to meet every requirement for pure drinking water. The filtering medium will 
remove CHOLERA, TYPHOID, AY iP ALL DISEASE GERMS. The Filter is applicable to city water 
supply or for cistern or well water. Medals and diplomas awarded by scientific societies and expositions. 

“ Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y., September J, j 8 q 2. 

“ I know of no filter which, in my opinion, can be depended upon to remove disease germs but the Pasteur. I 
should have no fear of water for drinking purposes, no matter how epidemic and violent the disease prevailing, 
provided it were filtered with a properly sterilized Pasteur Filter. I use the filter in my house all the time. 

“E. HITCHCOCK, Jr., Professor of Hygiene and Physical Culture at Cornell University. ** 

The Pasteur Filter was awarded the contract, over all competitors, for furnishing water 
at the free drinking stations at the World’s Fair. Write us for Catalogue and prices. 

THE PASTEUR-CHAMBERLAND FILTER CO., Dayton, Ohio, U.S.A. 

Sole Licensees for the United States, Canada, and Mexico. Discounts to 

R. C. Anderson, Manager Eastern Department, No. 4 West 28th St., New York City. dealers only. 


CRAYON PORTRAITS! FRAMES 

Send us at once a photograph or a tintype of yourself, or any member of 
1 your family, living or dead, and we will make you from it an enlarged 
^ Crayon Portrait, with frame complete, absolutely free of charee. 
^ This offer is made in order to introduce our new Portraits and Frames in your 
vicinity. Put your name and address on back of photos, and send to TANQUEREY 
PORTRAIT SOCIETY, 751 De Kalb Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y. Among our 
numerous customers we mention Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, Hon. T. Crisp, Speaker of the 
^ House of Representatives, Washington, D. C„ etc. Refer to all Express Cos. and banks in N. Y. and 

Brooklyn. 



SNOW-FLAKE-SALT 


NEVER GETS LUMPY OR DAMP. 


A PERFECT TABLE LUXURY. 

8NOW FLAKE SALT OO. 63 FULTON ST. N.Y. 


1 SKINNY 

U sing “. Adiposidia” gain 1 0 lb§. 
per month. Only genuine Fatten- 
ing Preparation ever discovered. 

A harmless and deliciouj Bever* 

ape which act. like magic. Par* 
ticulart 4 cents. 

WOMEN 1 


Cfuvli 

WILCOX SPECIFIC CO.,Phlla, Pa* 


BAYLE’S DEVILEO CHEESE. 

The only cheese for epicures. Your grocer has it ; 
a full size jar will be sent, charges prepaid, on re- 
ceipt of fifty cents by the maker. 

GEO. A. BAYLE, St. Eouis, Mo. 





Scenic 

Lehigh Valley 
Route 

BETWEEN 

New York 

Philadelphia 

-=$ and 3- 

© CHICAGO, © 

-s via s- 

Buffalo or Niagara Falls. © 


I N all America there is no region more picturesque than that which is 
traversed by the Reading Railroad's line connecting the Atlantic and the 
Great Lakes. Passing through the sublimely beautiful scenery of the Lehigh 
Valley, past Mauch Chunk, the “ Switzerland of America,’' into and over 
vast ranges of sky-towering mountains, through the song-famed and 
romance-hallowed vale of Wyoming, the smiling Susquehanna Valley, 
and the famous Lake Region of New York, it reveals a series of landscapes 
unsurpassed in beauty, grandeur, and diversity. 

Over the Reading Railroad's “Scenic Lehigh Valley Route" four trains 
in either direction, every day, carry through Pullman Buffet Parlor- and 
Sleeping-Cars between New York and Philadelphia and Chicago, via either 
Buffalo or Niagara Falls. The trains are splendidly equipped, being provided 
with all the modern and improved appliances for safety, comfort, and lux- 
ury. An agreeable feature of this line is the absence of smoke, soot, and 
cinders, all locomotives being fuelled with clean, hard anthracite coal. 
Whether for pleasure touring or for business travel, the attractions of this 
line are unequalled. 

NEW YORK STATION : Foot of Liberty Street, North River. 

PRINCIPAL TICKET OFFICE: 235 Broadway. 

PHILADELPHIA STATION : Market and Twelfth Streets. 

PRINCIPAL TICKET OFFICE: N. E. Corner Broad and Chestnut Sts. 


A. W. NONNEMACHER, 

ASST. GEN. PASS. AGT. , SOUTH BETHLEHEM, PA, 


C. G. Hancock, 

GENERAL PASSENGER AGENT, PHILADELPHIA. 


32 



5 5 5555H55 5B53S 

MISCELLANEOUS 



No. 1 Trokonets 


NOW READY. 


THE VERY BEST AND MOST RELIABLE HAND 
CAMERAS EVER MADE. NO FAULTY FILM, 
NO GLASS PLATES TO BREAK; STILL GLASS 
PLATES CAN BE USED. 


FILn LIES FLAT, DEVELOPHENT A PLEASURE. 
SLIGHTLY TOUCH THE LEVER AND A PICTURE 
IS TAKEN. The loading of a Trokonet with 35 films is 
but the work of a moment. 


Take a TROKONET with you to the World’s Fair. 
All Photographic Dealers sell them. 

Trokonet catalogue free on application. 


THE PHOTO-MATERIALS CO., 

Manufacturers , 

ROCHESTER, N. Y. 



! EMPLOYMENT 




S3, 


AND S3 A DAY 


For Men, Women, Young: Men, Young: 

1 Women, Bright, Active Boys and Girls , 

We want people everywhere to 
work for us. From $3 to $8 a day 
can be earned at pleasant and easy 
work. Write at once for particu- 
lars. 


PATRIOTIC PUBLISHING CO. 


PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
608 Chestnut St. 


'•'•'I 


sto.i-.ssA SAVE YOUR MONEY. 

Send for an Automatic Coin 


COIN BANK |J 

NATIONAL I 

SAVINGS I 

(wi 

S! 

ill 



“ • t AjJI COd 

prepaid for $ 1. 25. One of the lat- 
est novelties for Holiday Presents. 
Each deposit changing the Mot- 
to. Its novelty Mill make it 
attractive in every Home, and 
induce liberal deposits, and the 
children will find their Banka 
source of much entertainment as 
well as profit. Agents wanted. 

AUTOMATIC COIN SAVINGS BANK. 

32 Hawley St., Boston, Mass- 



A Book for the Millions. 

Ihe u, 0RLD’S FAIR T c® a 

Qnan Qhnte of Grounds, Buildings, 

. _ _ Olldp OlUJIS Interiors, The Hidway, 

Processions of all Nations, and other views of 



ta Ha A fine 14k gold pla- 

ted watch to every 
■ ® reader of thispaper. 

Cut this out and send i t to us with 
your full name and address, and we 
will send you one of these elegant, 
richly jeweled, gold finished watches 
by express for examination, and if 
you think it is equal in appearance to 
any$25.00 gold watch payoursample 
price, $3.50, and itis yours. We send 
with the watch our guarantee that 
you can return It at any time within 
one year i f not satisfactory, and if 
you sell or cause the sale of six we 
will give you One Free. Write at 
once, as we shall send out samples 
for 60 days only. Address 

THE NATIONAL M’F’C 
& IMPORTING CO., 

334 Dearborn St., Chicago, 111. 


35 HOUSE PLANS for 25 cents. 
If you are going to build, send 25 cents to J. S. OGIL- 
VIE, 77 Rose St., N. Y., and get new book contain- 
ing new plans how to build a house. 


Worth of Music for 50c. 132 pages full 


$20.00 and complete. Full sized music^ Vocal 

and Instrumental, entitled “The Evening Party.” 
Each composition an American copyright by the 
best composers and authors. (48compo*sitions.) Sent 
post-paid for 50c. Frank Harding, 229 Bowery, N. Y. 


CALIFORNIA 


The Matchless— America’s Beauty 
Spot is in her Southern Counties. 
Learn all about the land of delight in its foremost 
newspaper, The Los Angeles Times. Daily, 8 to 20 
pp., $2.25 per quarter, $9.00 per year; Weekly, 12 pp., 
$1.30 per year. Address, The Times, Los Angeles, Cal. 


G hristmas gift and birthday booklets 

. . , IN EXQUISITE BINDINGS . . . 
Send for Catalogue— Agents wanted— Liberal terms. 
IBBOTSON BROS., Richfield Springs, N. Y. 


SMIRYII 

Photographic Souvenir Albums in Albertype 
25 cts. to $3 00, postpaid by mail. Send for list. 
^^THEUNITEDSTATES^^00plateSjfinelyboun^5. 


P 




* < 

0 


H 


I* - 




<> 









WITH THE WITS. 



Fable op the Reformer. 

O NCE upon a time there was a reformer who took himself seriously,— but a 
humorist withal, for it was his conviction that it was possible to elevate 
the stage. 

Accosting a manager who was by nature adjusted to his occupation,— since, 
through chronic strabismus, he always had a cast in his eye, — he said, “ Alas, sir, 
I fear that the drama is going to pieces.** 

“ Yes,” admitted the manager ; “ spectacular pieces.* * 

When the touching pathos and delicate significance of this rejoinder had 
filtered through the epidermis of the reformer, he exclaimed, with the spontaneity 
of the boisterous Briton, “ I will defer laughter until week after next. In the 
mean time I propose to show that it is possible to elevate the stage.** 

So saying, he produced a monstrous cartridge of dynamite, which he lit and 

tossed into the bowels of the dramatic modus operandi, and well, there’s 

nothing further to add, except the moral; “There are more ways than one of 
skinning a cat.** 


34 


c. M. S. 



rid c±cL »- r- r- g 

WEHRING HPPHREL *j»j3 

S S2 SSSSSS S SSSS S SSI r SSSSS3SSS33SSSSSSS!SSS ^^^^ ehpp 1 



Sixth 

Avenue, 


O’NEILL’S 

NEW YORK. 

IMPORTERS ySND RETRILBRS. 


20th to 
2ISt St., 


Fine Millinery, Dry Goods, Fancy Goods, Furniture, 
Curtains, China, Glassware, etc. 



OUR MAIL ORDER DEPARTMENT. 

W E make a specialty of Mail Order Business, 
sending goods to all parts of the world. 
Guaranteeing perfect satisfaction to the customer 
or refunding the money. This feature of our busi- 
ness secures and retains the confidence of a vast 
patronage, who find it a pleasure to deal with a 
house whose reliability is assured, and where all 
wants can be promptly supplied at Lowest Prices. 

SEND US A TRIAL ORDER. J 

SEND FOR OUR CATALOGUE.— Fall and Winter 
Edition of our Illustrated Catalogue, now ready, mailed 
Free to out-of-town residents. As the demand for this 
book is always greater than the supply, we ask you to send 
in your name early. 


All Purchases Delivered by Express 
Free of Charge at any Point within 
a Radius of ioo Miles of New York 
City. 


M. O’NEILL & CO., 

Sixth Avenue, 20th to 21st St., N.Y. 


DGC6C8r8C8T8C8re3QC8C8DeC8C8r8C8C030C8C83r 


W. L. DOUGLAS 
$3 SHOE 


FOR 

GENTLEMEN, 




Best Calf Shoe In the World for the Price. 

Fine Call Drees Shoes, $3.50, $4.00 and $5.00. 
Very Stylish. 

Policemen’s, Farmers’ and Letter Carriers’ $3.50 
Shoe. Three Soles, Extension Edge. 

$2.50 and $2.00 Shoes for General Wear. Extra 
Value. 

Boys and Youths wear the $2.00 and $1.75 School Shoe. 

For Ladies, $3.00, $2.50 and $2.00 Shoes. Best Dongola. 

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36 



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37 


WITH THE WITS. 



Fable of the Missionary. 


O NCE on a time— so runs the rhyme in this instructive fable— there came a 
man, with views extreme, to ventilate an ancient theme to congregations 
sable. Said he one day, “ Dear friends, I pray in every word and action 
that I, from every point of view, shall perfectly agree with you in fullest satisfac- 
tion.” They told him then, these sable men, in this supreme connection, that, 
though at first they had been foes, his recent gain in adipose had settled all objec- 
tion. Just then a wight as black as night (by way of illustration) invited him 
to stay to tea with such an urgent manner he embraced the invitation. And 
when "at last the thin repast was stowed away compactly, they all agreed, with 
surfeit sense, that his delightful Reverence agreed with them exactly. But bliss, 
though brief, still comes to grief, for one complaining glutton caressed his jaw 
with aching ruth ; for he had cracked his wisdom tooth on a suspender button. 

The moral, then, that comes to ken, with a suggestion stealthy, slips through 
some door of sense ajar, and sighs, “ Don't get too popular ■, because it isn't healthy .” 

Fable of the Fox and the Turtle. 



O NCE upon a time the sun discovered a 
new recipe for cooking the welkin. 

On the same sultry occasion a turtle, 
lolling in the cool security of a shady pool, 
observed an overheated fox so short of breath 
that it had great difficulty in keeping up its 
pants ; and as Reynard lapped the water the 
turtle remarked, “ Is it hot enough for you?” 

u Hot !” gasped the fox. “Oh, no; Pm 
freezing : notice me shiver? observe the frost 
on my whiskers? Where have you been, not 
to know that it is winter?” 

Before the turtle could reply, it inadver- 
tently swallowed a fish-hook villanously con- 
cealed in the internal economy of a blue-bottle 
fly, and as it was drawn wriggling to the shore 
by the ubiquitous small boy the fox inquired 
sympathetically, “ Does it hurt?” 

Moral. 

The moral of this pathetic fable is obvious : 
or if it isnT it ought to be. And with this 
proviso in view we refrain from going further 
into details. c. M. s. 


38 


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40 




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41 


WITH THE WITS . 



Fable of the Philosopher and the Burglar. 

O NCE upon a time a despondent burglar, who had met with a disheartening 
series of unyielding time-locks, accosted a philosopher who was extract- 
ing with indifferent success the nutriment from a large-sized cud of 
reflection. 

Said the burglar, “ How do you manage to keep so offensively cheerful ?” 

“ Well,” answered the philosopher, as he extracted a juicy apothegm and 
buttered it with a layer of sophistry, “ you are welcome to the formula : I always 
take things as I find them.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the burglar, startled to discover a sentiment so much in 
harmony with his own views, “but you have never been subjected to the incon- 
venience of going beyond the maxim, whilst I have put it into practice.” 

“ May I inquire,” asked the philosopher, “what is your occupation?” 

“ Certainly,” responded the rogue, easily. “ I am a burglar.” 

“ Great heavens !” exclaimed the philosopher, startled into bolting an epigram 
entire, “you should not apply philosophy so literally. Discard the practice, and 
adopt the theory.” 

“Ah !” laughed the burglar, “you admit, then, that there is a discrepancy. 
For my part, I prefer things that hang together.” 

“In that case,” said the philosopher, “continue in your present occupation 
and stick to your accomplices. In the end you are sure to hang together.” 

42 


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43 



WITH THE WITS. 



The Eagle and the Tortoise. 

O NCE there was an epidemic. 

Discontent. 

It began with that beatific beast the ass, and ended with the tortoise. 
One day the tortoise beheld an eagle executing, for public approval, some 
convoluted manoeuvres in the firmament. “Ah !” cried the tortoise, “what a 
point of observation ! I say, can’t you give a fellow a lift? I’d like to fly, too.” 

“ To be sure,” responded the eagle, as it very promptly swallowed the tortoise, 
and reascended. “ How’s that?” 

“Alas !” cried the tortoise, as the digestive process began to disintegrate his 
anatomy, “I have often been accused of being too slow, but on this occasion I 
am entirely too fly.” 


Moral. 

Tortoise. — “ If I had only stuck to my mud !” 

Eagle. — “ If I hadn’t swallowed that shell !” C. M. s. 



44 


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JOHN WANAMAKER. 


45 





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